


Sotto Voce

by GSJwrites



Category: Glee
Genre: Klaine, M/M, sotto voce
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-01-01
Updated: 2013-05-21
Packaged: 2017-11-22 11:34:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 27
Words: 69,362
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/609386
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GSJwrites/pseuds/GSJwrites
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <img/>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Wine critic Kurt Hummel can make or break careers with his column for Taste Magazine. But when his publisher orders him to spend a year profiling rising stars of California’s wine country and organizing a competition between the big name wineries of Napa and the smaller artisan wineries of Sonoma, his world gets turned upside-down by an enigmatic young winemaker who puts art before business.</p><p>~</p><p>June 2015: I'm very excited to share that the adaptation of Sotto Voce into a novel received a starred review from Publishers Weekly and a Foreword Reviews INDIEFAB book of the year award. The novel is an adaptation of this original work, with extensive re-writing and additions to the fic. I will not be taking this original draft of Sotto Voce down from A03, and I intend to keep it in its original unedited and unrevised form here. It is not the same as the novel, and I feel it stands on its own, errors and all. Thank you so much for your support of this little fic that is so close to my heart. - GSJ</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I’m a winemaker. Not by profession, but by hobby, with a small backyard vineyard of Syrah and Zinfandel. I love learning this craft. And, of course, I love the product that results from it.
> 
> California’s “Wine Country” (there are actually many wine appellations in California, but the counties of Napa and Sonoma are what is commonly referred to as “Wine Country”) is an illustration of contrasts. Both valleys produce world class wine. Napa has the biggest names, the glizziest restaurants and the highest price tags. Sonoma also has some big name wineries, but still has a huge number of smaller, boutique, family wineries that have largely disappeared from Napa’s costly landscape. I love both regions, but there is something about Sonoma that tugs at my heart.
> 
> Last fall, I saw art by minj500 depicting Klaine in a traditional grape stomp. It was right about the time that I was hosting a meeting at the Lodge at Sonoma, and hosting a dinner at one of my favorite small wineries which specializes in Syrah and Syrah blends. … And an idea for Sotto Voce was hatched.
> 
> I owe a debt of thanks to several people who have given me guidance, support, ideas and direction: iconicklaine, whose words and ideas I treasure; sillygleekt and winterlit, who can both proof and cheerlead with the best of them; and knittywriter, who with a single word has given this story a conclusion.
> 
> There will likely be passages along the road on the technical aspects of viticulture and winemaking. When that happens, I'll be sure to include some chapter notes to clarify what's happening.

The click-clack-click of his booted heel on the pavement had always helped set the pace for the week.  
  
It would clear his head, give him focus, help him tune out the hustle of the Monday morning subway crowd as Kurt set mental to-do lists and, at least today, considered proposals for the meeting that was creeping up on him all too fast.  
  
Click.   
  
 _Quinn, 10 a.m. The first face-to-face in six months, and she's expecting a plan for features, columns, tastings, promotions and special events for the next year -- all in the name of Taste, her magazine, her baby that I helped nurture and raise when I signed on as her wine critic._  
  
Clack.   
  
 _I need a plan. I need a plan. I need a plan._  
  
Click.   
  
 _What the fuck is my plan?_    
  
Kurt Hummel had made a successful career -- and possibly killed a few -- discovering and sometimes verbally dismantling new wineries, winemakers and wine regions for American oenophiles, at least those upscale enough to subscribe to the slick, polished and costly monthly publication. Technically, it wasn't a wine magazine. It was, as Quinn often said, "a life guide for tastemakers."  
  
The publication had climbed the ranks quickly, tracking food, fashion, entertainment and literary trends for a demographic that was young, educated and upwardly mobile.  
  
But it was the wine section, specifically the wine critic, that had made a name for  _Taste_  and quickly set it on par with  _Wine Spectator_  and  _Wine Enthusiast_. Kurt's columns and reviews were ruthlessly pointed and unquestionably accurate. He also had a sense for undiscovered talent, and when an unknown winemaker was featured in one of his columns, that winemaker's days of anonymity were numbered.   
  
He was also known to write scathing reviews of some of the most well-established names in the industry, including one which famously affected the stock price of a corporate owner of a major Napa brand, resulting for a while in his insistence of absolute privacy -- no mugshots with his columns, hotels were to be booked under pseudonyms, no personal appearances. Kurt convinced himself that if he was going to do this job right, he had to do it in a protective bubble.  
  
That lasted only until the moment  _Taste_  took off, and became a cultural phenomenon of its own. Quinn had insisted on a series of events -- high end tastings, pairings, wine and food fairs -- designed to bolster and supplement the  _Taste_  brand. Kurt's participation was essential, she said. You are a part of this brand, she said. You will share that lovely face with the world on behalf of  _Taste_ , she said.  
  
And he had a contract that said he would cooperate. And when he did, his life changed for the better.  
  
It had never been a part of the plan to end up here. He'd always expected to become a writer, to be sure, but his road to managing the Style section of the  _New York Times_  detoured, sharply, when a college job waiting tables opened doors to a world of fine wine.  
  
He rarely even drank wine before that job, but his manager quickly discovered he had a natural nose and palate for assessing the good, the bad and the vinegar, and how to pair certain wines to particular foods. He was immediately assigned to the sommelier, as an apprentice of sorts, learning the art of wine tasting.  
  
That he could put these skills into words was a bonus, and a career-maker. He was officially "influential," a wine celebrity, even if his fame was limited to an exclusive circle. He feared no wine makers, no corporate power brokers, so long as he was granted the freedom to speak honestly in his column.  
  
There was only one person he feared, and he was supposed to present a non-existent work plan to her in exactly fourteen minutes: His editor-in-chief and publisher, Quinn Fabray.  
  
****  
  
"What a pleasant surprise." Quinn walked with a preternatural grace, extending her well-manicured hand and her less-than-sincere good will.  
  
"Surprise? Our meeting's been on the calendar for weeks," Kurt said, accepting a handshake that morphed into a light hug.  
  
"I was surprised you showed up. These meetings have a way of getting rescheduled."  
  
Quinn looked up at him through her lashes, feigning modesty. If they were still in high school, he would have thought it coquettish. As an adult, he sensed a trap.  
  
If he had the slightest attraction to women, he would have been both terrified of and possibly in love with Quinn Fabray. She was such a complex creature: Brilliant, ambitious, Yale-educated. She was also a classic beauty, the green-eyed golden girl who graduated from prom queen to publisher with nary a misstep.  
  
"My inbox is lonely, Kurt. It's been expecting an outline from you."  
  
"Well, I've been thinking about that."  
  
"And?"  
  
"Perhaps a profile of rivals."  
  
"Go on."  
  
"Maybe a series."  
  
"Yes?"  
  
"That leads to an event ..."  
  
"Maybe a competition?"  
  
"A blind tasting between regional stars on the rise."  
  
Kurt was making this up as he went along, and he suspected that Quinn was well aware of it, but as long as she was along for the ride, he could keep going.  
  
"And which regions would you propose?"  
  
OK, that's tricky. Kurt had traveled the world preparing profiles for  _Taste_ , and each region could be considered another's rival.   
  
"How about something traditional? Something big name?" Quinn offered. "How about Napa versus Sonoma?"  
  
"Really? Haven't they been done to death, Quinn?"  
  
"Kurt, I know you haven't thought this through. But I have. And here's what we're going to do."  
  
Quinn went on to detail -- in excruciating, well-reasoned detail -- her plans for a "Year in the Wine Country," a series that would not only contrast and compare the famous neighboring appellations, but also profile both their established and up-and-coming wineries and winemakers. It would be a series of established names versus new philosophies, of corporate stakeholders versus boutique vintages.  
  
And it would result in a major event pitting the best of both regions against each other, an event with major advertising sponsorship money.  
  
"We have advertisers with major interests in California. Big advertisers with even bigger interests, and this, this, will keep them coming back to  _Taste_  until they are established with us.  
  
"So pack your bags, Kurt. You're moving to California."  
  
****  
  
WHAT THE HELL.  
  
"How did I go from writer-without-a-plan to soon-to-be-former New Yorker?" Kurt muttered to himself.  
  
There was little doubt that Quinn had been planning this for ages, and that she fully expected him to show up for the meeting having to wing it, no plan in hand, making him vulnerable to this sabotage.  
  
She'd already made enough arrangements to start the wheels in irreversible motion.  
  
Kurt had exactly three weeks to settle what few personal affairs he had to attend to. Quinn had already identified a subletter for his apartment, if he was agreeable. She'd also booked his one-way ticket to SFO. And made a reservation with an extended-stay hotel in the nondescript but conveniently located town of Rohnert Park -- just temporary, she reminded him. He would have to find a place to call home for the next year.  
  
As for leaving, it really wasn't all that hard.  
  
As much as he loved the pace and eclectic nature of New York, he had always enjoyed his trips to California. He just hadn't planned on moving there. The wine country was beautiful but also, by definition, an agricultural zone -- farmland. It wasn't exactly the environment Kurt was accustomed to making his home. But it was also 90 minutes from San Francisco, so he would have an urban escape available when he needed it -- an out he expected to take full advantage of.  
  
And he had no entanglements to detangle from, not since he'd caught his last boyfriend, a choreographer, providing ...  _perhaps he should think of it as private lessons_  ... to one of his proteges.   
  
In bed.   
  
Their bed.  
  
Kurt had been making the rounds, a few appointments with local sommeliers to discuss up-and-coming wine regions and consumer trends. But when his last call of the day canceled at the last minute due to illness, Kurt found himself home two hours earlier than he -- or Mario -- anticipated.  
  
He walked into the apartment to noises, like the banging of pipes or the clatter of pots and pans, but coming from the bedroom, not the kitchen. And then, the unmistakeable, unrestrained whine, one he'd heard so many times over the past year, above the clatter of the rattling bed.  
  
He willed himself to follow the trail of clothes down the hall, coming full stop in the open doorway.  
  
Kurt peered into the room just in time to see and hear the last of it, as Mario fucked the boy through his orgasm, grunting and pumping until he came, loud and hard across his chest. The bed was a tangle of limbs, a familiar back with unfamiliar calves and feet draped over his bare shoulders. Moments after their climax, they had stilled, but remained unaware of Kurt's presence until he said, crisply and bitterly, "I expect you to clean up, change the sheets and get the hell out, in that order."   
  
No, leaving New York actually wouldn't be that difficult for him at all, and Quinn knew it.  
  
****  
  
He knew he would need to make rapid progress on the project. Kurt was uncertain of its long-term viability, but also knew that he would have to make the best of it as Quinn had apparently connected the idea to ad revenue.  
  
He got to work on it not long after concluding his business with Quinn, sending a flurry of emails and calls to his west coast contacts, seeking ideas, names, housing leads, whatever he could get.  
  
Napa would be easy enough. The big names don't change much, and the valley had a well-established publicity machine more than willing to set him up with private tours, meetings, tastings, whatever he needed. The individual wineries frequently had their own public relations staffs and consultants, and were often accountable to corporate offices in New York, Paris or London.  
  
Sonoma was another story.  
  
Though the valley had come into its own as a winemaking market, much of it still clung to small, family-run vineyards and winemaking operations. Many of the wines were difficult to locate in anything but the most local of wine shops or restaurants, with their small runs sometimes sold out to devoted wine clubs.  
  
Like Napa, Sonoma had an association to promote travel, tourism and investment in the valley, and its executive was a longtime friend who was both devoted to and confounded by the industry she represented.  
  
Santana Lopez was no outsider. She'd grown up in the valley, the daughter of a field hand who worked his way up the chain of command at a Sonoma winery until he had become the vineyard manager. He didn't have the college degree like his peers or even many of his underlings, but he understood the terroire like only someone who had grown up with it could, and had a knowledge of vineyard growth and management that few others possessed. He had earned enough of a living to set aside funds to send his bright and cynical daughter to college. He thought he'd never see her again.  
  
Instead, she returned eight years later, sadder, wiser and devoted to the valley that had given her father a chance, and in turn, gave her one, as well.  
  
She dedicated her time to promoting the local industry that refused to take its cues from its bigger and more prestigious neighbor, despite the fact that many of its wines had also won global acclaim.   
  
She met Kurt's request with restrained, practical enthusiasm. An opportunity for her? Possibly. For Sonoma? Absolutely. Is it workable? To be determined, she said.  
  
"On the bright side, Napa'll be a piece of cake. Your biggest problem there will be staying sober," she said.  
  
"The big ones over on the other side will jump at it, but if you're looking for independent Sonoma labels, they may be a little hard to pin down. They don't have the back-up staff like the big guns, and to be honest, I can't always predict what these guys will do. But I've got some ideas. Let me work on it, and I'll have you set up by the time you get here."  
  
****  
Kurt turned his phone on moments after touching down at SFO and it lit up with messages. One, two, three, four, all from familiar Napa names.   
  
But Sonoma? One text, from Santana: _If you want me to set you up, get your ass over here as soon as you land._  
  
He had shipped most of his clothes ahead, so he grabbed his carry-on, hustled to the rental car counter and picked up the car -- the very tiny car -- Quinn had reserved for him.  _It's a clown car_ , he thought.  
  
He normally would have paused for an hour, a day or more in San Francisco. The city felt so familiar to him, sort of New York West, but with steep hills that made him grateful for BART, taxis and automatic transmissions.   
  
There wouldn't be time for his usual dinner on Nob Hill or North Beach this time. Instead, he made record time through the crowded streets near the waterfront, past the Presidio and toward the Golden Gate.  
  
Kurt immediately felt the urban pace he was so accustomed to shift the moment he crossed the bridge into Marin County. Mere minutes out of the city, through parkland and past Sausalito's rows of houseboats, he could feel his body begin to exhale.  
  
Just shy of 90 minutes out, he was greeted with the first of row upon trellised row of Cabernet, Merlot and Zinfandel. They glimmered in the mid-day sun, the sunlight reflecting on metallic tape intended to drive ravenous birds away from the valuable fruit. To Kurt, it looked like the flash of paparazzi strobes in the middle of farmland.  
  
Tourists pulled to the side of the road to snap pictures of their first vineyard sighting, but Kurt drove on, straight to Sonoma Square, a collection of small galleries, stores, restaurants and offices facing a central park and a 150-year-old stone building, the city hall, in the center of the community. It was tiny by most cities' standards, but it was also a state historic landmark and a source of civic pride. The well-walked park surrounding it served as a short-cut and a picnic spot for tourists who first stopped at one of the boulangeries, tasting rooms or cheesemongers that make their home along the large square.  
  
Wedged between a restaurant and a jewelry store, the Sonoma Wine Association leased offices on the square. It was where, after spending a little too much time looking for a parking space, Kurt found Santana, hands on hips, smirk on face.  
  
"So, tell me about Q's latest act of pretension," she said, a thread of bitterness stringing her words together.  
  
Kurt knew he would need Santana's help securing winemakers in the region. He was not as established, not as well connected, in Sonoma as he was in Napa. That, he suspected, was by design. Some Sonoma winemaking families went back generations in the valley, and they were deeply rooted in doing things their own way. They were equally cynical about the powerful winemaking machines located one county over.  
  
So he spilled it all, described every detail of Quinn's concept, down to the effort to use the series to secure longterm advertising dollars. The only thing he hid was his own concern that the drive for new advertisers could compromise the longterm goal of the project: A blind tasting pitting big business Napa against the artisan winemakers of Sonoma.  
  
"And you want me to set you up?" she asked. "Well, there are the classics ... and there are the trend setters."  
  
She handed him a list and a map, and added, "Whatever you do, you'll want to go here," pointing to a remote parcel in the Valley of the Moon appellation and a sly smile.  
  
"Rhapsody?" Kurt said. "I've never heard of it."  
  
"And that's one reason why its exactly the winery you're looking for," she said. "And you'll like the owner."

****


	2. Chapter 2

Kurt jostled up another unmarked dirt road, the third he'd driven in a vain attempt to find RhapsodyVineyards and Wine. He mumbled under his breath, cursing Santana for convincing him that this this faraway outpost should be his first, late-afternoon stop.

He should be in the neighborhood, he reasoned, but in reality he was hopelessly lost.

This definitely was not Highway 29 in Napa, where major wineries lined the highway like suburban mini-malls.

While many Sonoma County wineries were secluded by comparison to the sweeping, highway-close conglomerates of neighboring Napa, Rhapsody was downright disguised among oak trees and rugged hillsides. It wasn't off the beaten path -- there was no path, and no signage.

In her brief outline of the winery, Santana had described its owner as young, smart, unconventional, well-educated -- and maybe a bit reclusive.

_You think, Santana?_

But in his few years in the valley, the winemaker had developed a dedicated following and the respect of his peers -- no easy feat in a tight-knit, old money business.

If Santana was being honest -- anyone's guess, really -- this Blaine Anderson sounded like he might be a good story, and Kurt needed up to a year's worth of them.

Something in Santana's description suggested that it may also be worth the photo spread that would accompany a feature. Kurt's assessment of Rhapsody's stock rose rapidly, even if he'd never heard of the winery before.

Kurt's interest was piqued, but the reclusive winemaker had done a damn fine job hiding himself.

He looked up to see an approaching dust cloud, apparently from the upper reaches of the dirt path, the contrail of an approaching truck headed straight for his tiny rental car.

The 'road', for lack of a better term, was not made for both of them, and there was little doubt which vehicle would win a battle of wills ... and curb weight. As the truck approached, an old International Scout with its top removed, the two vehicles and their respective drivers came to loggerheads.

Kurt rolled down his window. "Excuse me ..."

A face, young, tanned and largely obscured by a pair of dark aviator sunglasses, looked up, clearly annoyed.

"Can you direct me to the Rhapsody winery?"

"Who wants to know?"

"I'm with _Taste_ magazine. Santana Lopez at the Sonoma Wine Bureau sent me. It's about a special project we're developing," Kurt said. "I'm just trying to meet with the owner and sample the wines."

"Rhapsody doesn't have a tasting room. It's private," said the stranger.

"This is a great opportunity. I'm sure he'd be interested."

"Don't be so sure about that," he said, leaning over his steering wheel and sounding more annoyed by the minute.

"Maybe if you could just direct me to him ..."

"Oh god!" The man cut his engine and set the brake, jumping from the vintage truck, his  khaki pants and a fitted denim shirt scarcely masking the athletic build underneath them. "Look, Mr. ..."

"Hummel."

"Hummel. Rhapsody's private. It sells out its run each year. It's not looking to expand to the mass market. It's a boutique winery and the owner intends to keep it that way. He doesn't need the publicity, and he doesn't really want it either, especially not from some trendy publication that caters to people who have more dollars than sense."

Kurt paused, and realized who he had nearly literally run into on the road.

"By any chance, would you happen to be Blaine Anderson?" he asked. "I wish you would hear me out, because it's not just that this is a great opportunity for you, and for Rhapsody _\--_ but for the valley, for your neighbors." 

"Nobody wants Sonoma to become Disneyland. We've already got one of those, just off Highway 29."

The two glared at each other for a moment, a showdown of wills and of horsepower. Kurt would lose on at least one front. And his will wasn't likely to stand up long to what he was looking at, the head full of dark curls, the sharply angled jaw, the clothes that said both 'I belong outdoors' and 'I know what looks good on me'.

"You're not leaving," he said, confounded. "What would it take to make you go away?"

"A tasting."

He removed his sunglasses to reveal heated amber eyes, staring Kurt down and sizing him up, looking up one side and down the other, leaving Kurt feeling more than a little exposed.

"Fine. Follow me."

Under any other circumstances, Kurt would have followed him anywhere. No wonder Santana encouraged him to come here first. She knew Kurt's type, and Mr. Handsome Angry Winemaker was it.

"You know, I don't think that little clown car of yours is going to make it up the hill. Pull over to the side and hop in. I'll give you a ride up -- and back down, as soon as you're finished."

Well, at least they saw eye-to-eye on the status of Kurt's crappy rental car.

Kurt climbed into the passenger seat of the open-air truck and held on. Dressed in a trim black suit, his hair meticulously sculpted, he was definitely not prepared for the dust cloud that billowed upward when the driver swung the vehicle in a sweeping, high speed u-turn.

"So, you never answered my question: Are you Blaine Anderson?" Kurt asked, trying to initiate conversation.

"Mmmhmm."

"You're the owner?"

"Mmmhmm."

"I've heard good things about your wines."

"I heard that you'd never heard of my wines."

This was not going to be easy.

****

Blaine drove them up the winding road to a building, part barn, part industrial compound, with oversized sliding wooden doors and a collection of farm equipment neatly lined up along its perimeter. 

Alongside the building, in an area most people would consider a yard, sat a collection of plastic landscape pots labeled "Syrah," "Zinfandel," "Roussanne." In each pot, vine seedlings were being rooted for future planting and stock.

Kurt could see the outline of a house in the distance, further up the hill and partly  obscured by oak trees. It was nothing like the faux Tuscan villas or replica chateaux he had seen so many times along the highway into Napa. It was a classic, old-fashioned farm house. Squinting to make out details, he could make out a veranda wrapped around the front of a  white clapboard home, and a series of large windows lining the ground floor. It had to be relatively new, but it looked like it had been built there decades before.

Before he knew it, the truck came to a screeching halt. Blaine grabbed the keys from the ignition and jumped out.

"It'll have to be a barrel taste if you're wanting the new vintage," he said. "We haven't bottled yet."

"I'd be honored," Kurt said.

Blaine shouldered the heavy, oversized sliding doors open, revealing a large room with concrete floors and a collection of steel tanks. Toward the back were rows and rows of oak barrels stacked on a large steel racking system that resembling industrial-strength bookcases.

"What are you aging right now?" Kurt asked.

"Aging or _racking?_ " Blaine countered. "In here, in the final stages of racking before it is filtered and either aged in oak or bottled, are Syrah, Zinfandel and Roussanne.

"We're also racking Cabernet and Merlot, sourced from another Sonoma vineyard, in the cave. They'll be used for blending."

"You have a cave?"

"Of course we have a cave. Pretty much everyone does, but this one was designed for wine storage, not dinner parties. It's a working cave, for barrels and bottles."

Blaine walked into his winery's small office and pulled a hand-blown glass wine thief from a wall rack, along with two glasses and a bottle of water. He sterilized the outside of the thief with a spray of some compound -- Kurt assumed a mild sulfite solution -- to protect the young wine from bacteria.

"We'll start with _Allegrezza_ ," he said dispassionately, climbing a ladder to reach the top of a 500-gallon stainless steel tank.

" _Allegrezza_?"

"The Roussanne," Blaine said, opening the tank's upper hatch. He carefully dipped in the thief, covering it with his thumb when the tube filled with a fluid the color of a ripe pear. He released the contents into the two glasses, then resealed the stainless steel fermentation vessel. "Here."

Kurt took the glass and began his ritual, holding the glass to the light, checking for color and  clarity. Then he set it on a nearby table, swirling it gently and holding it back to the light again briefly to check its legs, watching the liquid glide down the interior of the glass, and finally raising it to his face, shutting his eyes and breathing in the light white wine.

"Mmmm. Nice floral notes. Lavender?"

Blaine rolled his eyes, swirled his glass and took a sip, holding it in his mouth and closing his eyes for a moment before swallowing.

Kurt sipped, and considered the wine for a moment. "I'm picking up a little citrus and grass, but the floral lingers."

"Yeah, it's good," Blaine said simply. "Next."

He took the glasses, rinsed them and the wine thief, and then moved on to another tank. Repeating the procedure, a velvety red wine was deposited into the glasses.

" _Mezzo_. The Zinfandel."

"I'm sensing a trend here," Kurt said. "Rhapsody Wines? _Allegrezza_? _Mezzo_?"

"Mm. Yes," Blaine said, truly disinterested in the conversation. 

"Is there a reason for the choice of each name to the particular wine?" Kurt asked.

"If you can't tell, then I haven't done my job very well."

Kurt again checked the color, the legs, the nose, then sipped at the rich, lively Zin. 

"It has the brightness of fruit, without the feeling that I'm eating a bowl of jam -- which is happening altogether too often lately." 

Blaine smirked, the closest thing to a smile since they had met, Kurt thought. 

"Let's see. The Roussanne? _Allegrezza_. It's bright, cheerful, like a bouquet of spring flowers."

Blaine's head may have been turned, but Kurt could see the slightest smile slip across his lips.

"I'll have to take a stab that _Mezzo_ is your in-between wine. Not bright and summery like the Roussanne, but there's something else you're making that's darker, richer. Something with deeper tannins. So the Zinfandel is " _Mezzo_."

"Yes."

"And it's lovely," Kurt said.

"Thank you. Syrah’s next."

"And it is?"

" _Appassionatto_."

The thief slipped samples of a dark, sinfully lush wine into the glasses. The color looked like it belonged on the runway, haute couture, and clung to the glass like a silk cut on the bias. 

A swirl, a dip of the nose. Kurt closed his eyes.

"Blackberry. Pepper and ... something else, almost smoky, with a hint of sweet, like ... maple?"

He took a sip, held it on his tongue. He sensed Blaine's eyes on him.

"Bacon!"

Blaine dipped his head as the corners of his mouth rose, revealing dimpled cheeks.

"Everything's better with ..." He hinted at a brief sigh, then righted himself. "The lower vineyard. Sometimes there's a hint of smoke to the fruit. Apparently there was a brushfire, years ago. It still comes out in the fruit, sometimes."

"Amazing," Kurt said, sipping the wine. "So, lower vineyard? Then there must be an upper, too?"

Blaine nodded, his voice gradually more accepting of conversation. "The upper is west-facing. A lot of afternoon sun. Higher sugar concentrations. It ripens more quickly and gets harvested first. The lower vineyard takes a little more time. It's in the afternoon shadows. There's morning fog. The fruit takes more time to fully develop, but there's more subtlety to it."

"What's planted there?"

"You drove past it earlier -- the Roussanne and about half the Syrah. Zin and the rest of the Syrah are up top, beyond the house."

"Two Syrahs?"

"Yes, usually blended, but not always. They're different. One dark and sometimes smoky. The other is brighter, with more distinct fruit."

"So there are more names?"

"Depending on the year, the blend, the results, sure. We have different varieties.  And a port, _Fortissimo_."

"Of course," Kurt said, surveying the room and noting a set of barrels, smaller and set apart from the others. "And over there?" he asked. "What are those?"

"That's reserve," Blaine said, his voice again tightening, setting itself into a soft mumble. "Sotto Voce."

"I'm sorry what?

"It's a blend, my private reserve, _Sotto Voce_."

"What's the blend?"

"That's none of your business." 

The bite was back in Blaine's voice, a guarded tone warning Kurt to back off, but he couldn't, not with this wine hanging in the balance. Even young, even unfinished, Kurt knew that Rhapsody needed to be a part of of the _Taste_ project.

"It won't be confidential when you bottle it," Kurt argued, determined to pursue it, and well aware of liquor laws that would force some disclosure of the wine's origins. 

" _If_ I sell it. Like I said, private. It's time for you to go, don't you think?"

"I'd like to buy some," Kurt said.

"Like I said, we sell out."

"Don't you want to know why? Don't you want to know why _Taste_ magazine wants to purchase _Rhapsody's_ wines?"

Blaine marched toward his truck, tossing his keys with a flip into the air, then catching them.

"Not really, but I'm assuming it's some kind of publicity stunt. Go visit Napa. You'll find all kinds of wineries jumping at the chance to play in your game, whatever it is."

"I'll be going there, too," Kurt said, trailing him to the truck. "But I want you."

Blaine wheeled around, making direct eye contact for the first time since their meeting on the dirt trail earlier that afternoon.

"I want your wine," Kurt said. "I want you involved. At least hear me out before you say no."

"I'll still say no."

"Five minutes."

"You have from here to your car," Blaine said, hopping in his truck. "Get in."

****

It was nearly closing time when the front door to the Sonoma Wine Bureau was thrown open, then slammed shut.

" _SANTANA_!"

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not sure how many of you have been or go wine tasting, or have familiarity with that terminology. I tend to take it for granted, and hadn't thought of Kurt's description of he Roussanne as particularly technical. But the passage on wine tasting resulted in the suggestion that I write a glossary to sort through some of the wine terminology already showing up in here. Instead, here's a great link to a very good wine glossary created by Wine Enthusiast magazine. Easy to use, and will help with most if not all terminology issues:  
> http://www.winemag.com/Wine-Enthusiast-Magazine/Wine-101/A-Wine-Enthusiasts-Glossary/
> 
> On the wines in this chapter: In case you are not already familiar with these varietals, a quick run-down on what Kurt sampled at Rhapsody:  
> * Roussanne - A light Rhone white wine, sometimes used for blending, similar in structure to Viognier. Probably the least familiar of the three wines to most people, Roussanne may be my favorite white. It is lighter than a Chardonnay, is un-oaked (it is aged in steel, not wooden barrels), and is fresh and delicate while still maintaining complex flavors and aromas. It reminds me of springtime. It's nose (aroma) is often very floral, think a meadow with an eruption of wildflowers. And you have often pick up notes (flavors) or citrus, grass, and other "bright" flavors.  
> *Zinfandel: Not that pink stuff your mama used to buy at the supermarket, Zinfandel is a medium-bodied red, often lush with the aroma and flavor of berries, plums or cherries. Generally "brighter" than the heavier Cabernets, Syrahs and Merlots. I grow and bottle Zinfandel, along with Syrah.  
> *Syrah: Another Rhone region varietal, Syrah is a dark grape that results in a big, powerful red wine. It is sometimes used for blending. Also known as "Shiraz", particularly if produced in Australia or New Zealand. Not to be confused with Petit Syrah, which is an even darker grape.
> 
> Thanks as always to sillygleekt and her ability to look at fine detail, including recognizing that I may associate nose and legs to wine glasses, but most people think of them as body parts. Thanks also to iconicklaine for her ability to spot the broader-brush issues of narrative.


	3. Chapter 3

Blaine had planned a simple, productive afternoon: Pick up a shipment of cork at a local supplier, stop by a neighboring winery to lend his expertise and support on a problematic fermentation cycle and dinner with local winemakers on the Square, the closest thing to a city center in the Sonoma Valley. 

Instead, his afternoon was turned upside-down by the sudden appearance of _Taste_ magazine's wine editor.

He knew who Kurt Hummel was. Virtually everyone in the wine industry did. Blaine had even been warned that he would be in town and might be headed his way, though he had actively discouraged that suggestion. 

And he needed no introduction to know who was behind the wheel of that tiny rental car nearly stuck in the soft dirt at the main entrance to his vineyard that afternoon. The driver looked _too_ city, _too_ fashionable, _too_ elegant to belong in a working vineyard. Blaine shook his head as if to purge not just the thought, but also the memory of how good those inappropriately fashionable clothes looked on his visitor.

Tourists didn't make their way to _Rhapsody_ , and that was by design. If you found yourself on that dirt trail, you had business at the winery or the vineyard. And if you had business at the vineyard, you didn't show up dressed in Marc Jacobs. 

Blaine had no use for pretentious east coast wine "experts". They catered to a clientele he knew all too well, and gone to great lengths to escape. But his choice of professions occasionally placed them right back in his face again, try as he may to avoid them.

Winemaking was his living, but it was also his craft. It was his contribution to art, and magazines like _Taste_ existed for one reason and one reason alone: To name the flavor of the week, and Blaine Anderson intended to leave his mark on the industry not as a brand, but as a contributor to the art, the craft and the science of winemaking. 

When necessity dictated that his childhood dreams of music be shelved for a "serious" career in science, oenology and viticulture almost miraculously introduced themselves, letting Blaine keep a pledge that allowed him to fund an Ivy League education — and keep his trust fund — and also let him stay true to his first love, the arts.

He considered himself forever indebted to winemaking, and because of it, had dedicated himself to its art, its aesthetic and the natural delicacy of its science. Plenty of winemakers concentrated on branding, on marketing, on selling the next Two Buck Chuck and deepening their fortunes on the tails of cheap, crap wine. 

Blaine was using his small fortune to create the best possible wine he could, and help others improve their craft.

No wine critic or trendy magazine had anything to offer him that he would find attractive, he thought.

The fact that Santana had clearly ignored his admonition and directed Hummel straight to his property pissed him off to no end, and he was now blowing off his plans to blow off some steam. 

"Santana!" he called out, just loud enough to make it clear he meant business. "Quit hiding — I saw your car out back."

She appeared in the doorway to the back office, not shrinking from the vocal threat, but standing up to it. Her clothes — urban, darkly monochromatic — and  her body language both saying _I give as good as I get_.

"What's your problem, Anderson? You don't come in here yelling..."

"And _you_ don't go sending people up to my property that I expressly told you I didn't want around," Blaine hissed back.

"What? Hummel? He found it? Frankly, I'm surprised — and surprised at you. You're usually Mr. Manners. What's the big deal? Wine writers are a part of the business."

"Not my business," he said.

"I really don't understand your problem, Blaine. If the wine editor at _Taste_ Magazine shows an interest in your wine, you should show an interest in the wine editor at _Taste_ Magazine."

"Excuse me?"

"Not like that, Anderson. _Although_..."

"Don't even go there, Santana."

"When was the last time you..."

"That's none of your business and completely irrelevant."

"Because he's single..."

"Drop it."

"Not going to let Auntie 'Tana set you up?"

"I thought this was about some sort of project he was working on."

"Oh, it is," she said, walking over to the coffee maker and nosing in the direction in the cups, her way of offering Blaine a liquid peace offering. "You still take cream and sugar?"

She walked him back to the conference room, a quiet spot where she could shut the door and drop pretenses. She'd known Blaine as long as anyone in the valley, and considered him an ally. 

And she needed his help.

"Look, Blaine. There's more to this than I first told you," Santana's voice dropped. The bite gone, she sounded stressed, maybe even a little defeated. "Yes, Kurt's looking to feature individual wineries and winemakers here in both counties and yes, _Taste_ is planning an event around them. But what they're planning... can either really help us or _really_ hurt us."

Blaine raised his eyes from his coffee cup to Santana's face, meeting her gaze.

"What are they up to?"

Santana went on to repeat, in detail, Kurt's outline for his year in the valley project: The ubiquitous reviews, and features of up-and-coming winemakers in both Sonoma and Napa — profiles of long-established wineries, the brand names of Napa versus the boutique wineries of neighboring Sonoma.

But the stories, the tastings, were also research for the penultimate project — the blind tasting between select major "name" Napa wines versus small unknowns from Sonoma.

"It's supposed to be a David versus Goliath competition," she said.

"That's not really anything new," Blaine said. "We're always compared to them. It's an old theme, a cliché. So what?"

"Two things, short stuff. First, they're pitting us against them. The biggest of the big versus us."

"Our wines stand up to theirs. There's no reason to be afraid of that," Blaine said.

"Not on its own, no, but there is when you factor in why _Taste_ is doing this in the first place."

"Because they need stories for their magazine?"

"No, Blaine. Because they're trying to lock down the owners of the biggest Napa wineries as long-term advertisers. David doesn't win this fight — Goliath does."

As far as Blaine was concerned, that was all the more reason to keep _Taste_ and its wine editor at arm's length. "Then why do you want to do this at all?"

"Think about it. If we say no, they've already won. They win by default. They win through intimidation. They win by reputation — and we can't let that happen. We have to go into the fight, to protect our reputation."

Then she aimed for what she knew to be Blaine's emotional soft spots: History, tradition, the art of winemaking, the international corporations that had virtually pushed American farmers and artisan winemakers out of Napa.

"Think about who we're up against, who owns those Napa vineyards, Blaine. There's a luggage company, a Swiss investment firm, an English distillery. One of the biggest landowners runs an Italian cement company. _Cement_ , Blaine. How many of these people actually make wine? Sure they hire people to make wine and run their vineyards, but they have no experience in it, or in this valley. They're outsiders who've invested in California wine because it’s lucrative."

"Some people would say that's me," he said.

"That's bullshit and you know it. This valley, the landowners are still winemakers, or most of them are. Even the ones that are newer to the valley come here to grow their own grapes, make their own wine. People like you, Blaine. Even some of our biggest wineries are run by families that have been making wines here for decades."

"There are still families on the Napa side," Blaine said.

"Who, Mondavi? They may technically be owned by the family, but even with some of their finest wines, they're more about mass production than about actual winemaking, Blaine."

"Gallo's here. How's that different?"

"Gallo's everywhere, Blaine. And they're based out of Modesto. Doesn't count. Look this isn't just about Sonoma defending it's honor, it's about showing the world the importance of the family farm, of the art and craft of winemaking. And even if you didn't grow up in this valley, you're one of our very best, and this entire community respects you. You're a leader, whether you like it or not. And they need you.

"Now, tell anyone that I said that and not only will I deny it, but I'll hunt you down in the middle of the night."

Santana smiled one of her smirky smiles, the one that said, _I've got your back but don't you even think of crossing me._ Blaine found them perplexing, and decided it best not to test her. 

He leaned back in his chair and looked at every corner in the smallish room. He looked everywhere but at the chair where Santana sat, finally heaving a dramatic sigh.

"What would you need from me?"

"Your cooperation. Your support... and your wine."

****

Blaine walked out of the Bureau office confused, annoyed and unhappily committed to helping Santana. He understood her dilemma, and the impact it could have on the local wine community. He had 45 minutes to kill before meeting his colleagues for an early dinner, so he walked the Square, absorbing the last rays of the day's sun and clearing his head as he strolled past the jewelry stores and tasting rooms.

Santana had played him smart. Had she simply tried to sell him on the "upside" of the proposal — the branding opportunities, the exposure — his answer would have been a flat and unequivocal no

He had no idea why she trusted Hummel the way she did. As far as Blaine was concerned, he was just another posh outsider looking to make a buck and a name off of the artisan winemakers of the Sonoma Valley. He had known too many Kurt Hummels in his life, and he wasn't interested in spending any more time with this one than was absolutely necessary, no matter how single he might be or how good he had looked in that suit.

Blaine had had to overcome that same image when he first packed his bags and his trust fund and moved west. Despite his Ivy League pedigree — perhaps because of it — he had to fight like hell to be accepted in the tight knit community, for his neighbors and peers to think of him as anything more than a transplanted New Yorker looking to hop on board the latest, chicest investment trend.  

They didn't know the things he'd had to give up and the life he had left in the dust in order to be here, not at first.

His initial reception in the valley had been guarded to the point of chilly. His education should have helped open doors — the Bachelor's from Cornell, the just-finished Master's from UC Davis, both in their respective, prestigious EVO programs. It didn't matter that he had completed not one but two internships with well-known Napa wineries, both of which had tried to hire him. If anything, he learned later, they were strikes against him.

But the biggest strike against him was that he was an outsider, a New Yorker, a very young New Yorker, who had opened his wallet and bought his first 25 acres of Sonoma soil without having _earned_ it.

He would go so far as to say he had been shunned, but he figured out quickly that he needed to prove that he belonged, to prove his worth, to this tight community.

Even Diego, Blaine's vineyard lieutenant who had been at his side from day one, once made it clear that Blaine was an outsider until proven otherwise. The son of a vineyard manager who could have been a top-flight winemaker in his own right — if he had the money — Diego had grown up among the vines, his extensive knowledge of winemaking formed in the outdoors, not the classroom. So when Blaine started spouting theory and science and formulas, Diego put him in his place.

"You people. You think you can just buy your way into this?" he said, staring Blaine down. "Take some lessons? Grow some grapes? You might  make a decent wine, but it's not in your blood.

"You think this is about technology? About science? It's about the soil, Blaine. It's about the vine. People were making and drinking wine centuries ago — drinking it when they couldn't trust the water. They didn't use malolactic fermentation or measure the merits of adding this yeast strain versus another. They tended their vineyards, crushed their grapes and let them ferment. Period.

"You'll never be a part of this land, not until the soil is wedged so deep under your nails that it looks like you were born with it there."

Diego also made it painfully clear that they were easily equals in the art of winemaking, and but for the luck of the financial draw, he might be running a winery.

Blaine had committed the verbal beat down to memory, and instilled it as a life lesson. _Respect the vine. Honor the valley's origins. Listen to those who preceded you._

He had dedicated himself not only to growing and building a classic winery, but to becoming a valued member of the winemaking community. He joined the Wine Bureau. He offered his help to anyone who needed it. _Need extra hands harvesting those grapes? Done. Can I help with a chemical analysis? Done. Interested in a new trellising technique? I can help you with that._

It wasn't long before Blaine was not only a trusted colleague, but also an undisputed and beloved leader in the valley's circle of viticulturists and oenologists. 

And he couldn't help but wonder if he had served them well this afternoon, or somehow sold them out. He'd find out soon enough.

****

It may have been a winemaker's dinner, but when Blaine arrived at the Girl and the Fig, he headed straight for the bar. Right now, he had enough wine on the brain. He didn't want it on his palette.

"Well, hello stranger. Been awhile," bellowed the voice behind the bar. Patty, a 30-something water scientist-turned-barkeep, had come to the valley for a career in agricultural engineering. She gave it up to pour wine and tell lies deep into the night, and never looked back.

Patty knew everyone who was anyone in town, and knew most of their secrets, too. _You don't get that kind of juice in a lab_ , she reminded herself, each and every payday. And  every time she saw Blaine Anderson, she had to remind herself: _Not on your team, sweetheart._

"I thought you were here for the little confab, but it looks like you're here for a drink," she said, holding a wine glass in one hand and a small tumbler in the other, as if to ask, _This? Or this?_

Blaine nosed toward the whiskey glass.

"Macallan 18. Make it neat, and make it a double."

"Mmmmm. It sounds delicious, but it doesn't sound _good,_ " she said, pouring that, and maybe a little more. "Boyfriend trouble?"

"You know better."

"You _deserve_ better. You do, you know, if it's about..."

"It's not. Really, it's not," he said, pulling back quickly, softening his tone. He shook his head, just a little. Then he smiled, for the first time in hours, and raised his glass. "To Patty, the only woman who's ever made me feel truly loved."

"Want to talk about it?"

"I'm afraid I'm going to have to do that in about 30 minutes. 

"Aaaah, must be that _Taste_ magazine guy."

"You already know about that? Wait. Don't even answer. _Of course_ you do."

"It doesn't strike me as the sort of thing you're drawn to."

"It's the sort of thing that repels me. I don't want to be involved in some advertising ploy. I don't want to cater to pretentious assholes who only appreciate the wine they're told to like by some equally pretentious writer who probably doesn't know shit about making wine."

"The _cute_ , pretentious writer who tells people what to like."

 _The gorgeous, pretentious writer who tells people what to like,_ Blaine thought, disgusted with himself.

****

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, a reminder that if terms like malolactic fermentation leave you scratching your head, there's a really good glossary here: http://www.winemag.com/Wine-Enthusiast-Magazine/Wine-101/A-Wine-Enthusiasts-Glossary/ (Although their malo definition is pretty sterile. Let's just say it's a secondary, somewhat forced fermentation that typically occurs after natural fermentation has concluded, usually during racking -- in the barrels.)
> 
> As always, I own nothing, NOTHING. And Napa has lovely wineries, even the really big ones. The story is just from the perspective of an artisan winemaker.
> 
> Also, thanks to sillygleekt, who appropriately holds my feet to the fire on my sometimes creative approach to grammar and punctuation, buckeyegrrl for the very cool cover art and to iconicklaine, who really is quite a muse.


	4. Chapter 4

For the headache that his first, brief venture into Sonoma had been, and future trips could very well be, Napa clearly intended to be a soothing balm.

The Napa Wine Board had made all the arrangements Kurt could have dreamed of: a driver, appointments with winemakers and teams from major wineries and a conference room at his disposal to meet with and taste the wares of lesser-known Napa winemakers. 

They'd also made arrangements for him to move from the AmeriSuites in Rohnert Park to a luxury suite, deeply discounted on his behalf, at Bardessono in Yountville. It was located at the center of the valley and the heart of Napa's culinary culture, where the biggest names in food had established some of the most exclusive restaurants in the country, restaurants with two-month waiting lists for reservations and diners armed with cameras in hopes of grabbing a snapshot with a celebrity chef.

Bardessono dripped with modern luxuries, and catered to exactly the clientele that subscribed to _Taste_. Starkly modern, the hotel and spa focused on Zen, using natural woods and stone to accent the sleek interiors. No luxury had been spared in Kurt's suite, either. A private courtyard, with a stone hot tub and outdoor shower — _When am I going to use that, really? —_ an indoor steam shower and spa tub; a fireplace that opened into both the bedroom and the living room; a built-in massage table, for god's sake.

That's not to say he was complaining. He would happily take Napa's largesse, and spend quality time at Bardessono over AmeriSuites for as long as they would allow.

Napa had jumped into this game gunning to win, its gilded weapons taking the form of chauffeured Town Cars and heated stone bathroom floors.

On his first day in Napa, his driver ran him up the valley -- to Chandon, to Mondavi, to Sterling. Each was lovely in its own right, meticulously designed to replicate Italian villas, French chateaux, Roman ruins and more. Each with a theme, some with a history, andg all with an experienced team capable of producing a product that had been successfully cultivated, processed and marketed.

Andretti invited him into a private tasting room exquisitely faux-marbled to resemble an aging villa, where he sampled the Barolo and met with the marketing team. Domaine Chandon whisked him past the crowds lined three-deep in the Tasting Lounge for samplings of its finest reserve sparkling wines. Beringer escorted him directly to the upstairs reserve room of its iconic Rhine House Mansion, which had been cordoned off from tourists so that he could sample the finer single vineyard reds that weren't normally equated with the massive label's brand.

They were full and familiar flavors at each and every tasting room. Cabernets with deep tannins, warm Chardonnays with a hint of French Oak, signature Meritages that struck a balance of plum with a touch of earth to ground it. They were quality wines, without question, some of the best on the market, with reputations and price tags to match.

They were wines designed to impress at special events, at state dinners, at weddings, at pairings. Their creators had well-established and equally well-documented reputations. 

Their financial backers were also either existing or potential advertisers in _Taste_ magazine.

But they were also so familiar, so frequently reviewed, so frequently recognized, that Kurt knew they added little to the ultimate outcome of his effort.

He kept looking, setting up shop in a quiet conference room at the hotel, with the Napa Wine Bureau hustling winery teams and their samples in for a talk, a taste and a quick judgement.

Swirl. Stare. Sniff. Sample. Spit.

Kurt's day was a rapid repetition of tasting protocol, followed by note-taking and a brief question-and-answer with the winemaker. 

"Tell me about your blend." 

"Are these your grapes, or are they sourced?" 

"French, Hungarian or American Oak?" 

"How would you ideally pair it?"

The winemakers had answers, and stories, and jokes, and gifts, anything to ingratiate themselves with the influential critic. They all brought wine, of course, but many brought much more: Magnums of reserve vintages, gift certificates to their partner restaurants, gourmet cheeses.

Kurt politely turned them down, one and all, knowing it amounted to little more than graft. A hotel's willingness to discount a room was one thing, a gift from a winery seeking to compete in the Challenge was something else entirely. Their sample wine he took, opened and followed the same meticulous protocol with each fresh corkage.

He inspected each bottle, scanning the labels for information on blends, vineyards or even processes. He opened them himself, though the hotel had offered the services of its sommelier. He inspected the cork for wine penetration and any sign of oxygen contamination or worse, mold.

Then came the real trial. He poured a small sample in the appropriate glass -- a big Bordeaux bell for reds, a smaller Chardonnay glass for whites -- and held the glass up for inspection, pointing it toward the white-walled room to get the best read he could for color and clarity.

He would then set the glass down on his conference table, placing two fingers along the base, swirling the contents like chemist would a beaker. He held the glass up again, inspecting the wine legs' tight grip to the sides of the glass. He lowered the glass and only then dipped his nose just inside the rim, taking a judicious breath with eyes closed, concentrating on its nose: some earthen or leather, others bright, harkening fruit, grass, spice or even floral aromas.

With a sense of each vintage's nose, he would then, and only then, take a small sip, holding the rich liquid on his tongue.

He rarely swallowed. A long day of tasting ahead, he did everything he could to keep control of his senses. Instead, he spat the wine into a silver bucket, and followed it with a sip of water.

But after hours of tasting, judging and interviewing, even without drinking the wine, he felt his head clouding, and both his palate and concentration compromised. He broke from the amassed collection of bottles, collected his scribbled notes and walked, taking in the warm afternoon sun.

He walked past gourmet shops and four-star restaurants, considering the wines he'd tasted and the winemakers he'd met, and dreaming up his perfect competitor for the _Taste_ Challenge.

And his thoughts drifted to Blaine Anderson, who was exactly who he was looking for, yet so stubbornly unwilling to even discuss the possibility of offering himself up for the Challenge.  

He thought about the hillside winery. Could he call it a winery, compared to these palaces of Napa, when it was little more than an oversized, temperature-controlled barn? Rhapsody, so young, yet so connected to the rich history of the appellation, alone on a fog-tipped hillside shaded by rows of ancient oak trees.

And its owner? Its muse? Its savant? Kurt didn't know what to make of him. He was rude and churlish. He was anti-social and a west coast elitist and everything Kurt normally tried to avoid. But he was also smart, layered in ways he tried not to let on about, and respectful of the valley's deep vineyard roots. 

He also seemed to have a stellar reputation among his peers for reasons Kurt couldn't quite begin to fathom. He got the impression that Santana adored him, a rarity, and high praise from the woman who preferred that the world not know her soft side, what little of it existed.

Kurt tried to shut it out of his head. Damn Santana. She knew what she was doing, insisting that the very first place he visited be run by someone straight out of an Ralph Lauren ad.

There was something about a rugged outdoors type, but with an edge of refinement, so contrary to the men Kurt normally met: the tanned skin, the khakis, the denim shirt fitted _just so_ over a lean torso. Even that damned open air truck just enhanced the image.

There was clearly some brainpower there, too. Between Santana's unprompted backgrounding -- and Kurt's subsequent online research — Kurt knew that Blaine was actually a New Yorker, an Ivy Leaguer at that, having graduated near the top of his class at Cornell's prestigious viticulture and oenology program. He then got snapped up quickly for graduate studies at UC Davis' Mondavi Institute — a spot coveted by winemakers from around the world.  

He could easily have charted a course to become chief winemaker at any number of top-flight, big name Napa wineries -- and was probably recruited to do just that -- but opted to buy a small parcel of land land and start up _Rhapsody_ instead. It didn't make much sense, but it made Kurt want to learn more about the enigmatic winemaker.

Blaine Anderson was a puzzle that Kurt wanted to solve, piece by immaculate piece.

****

"Mr. Hummel?"

Kurt had hardly stepped into the foyer of the hotel when the front desk clerk waved him over.

"Mr. Hummel? I have a couple of messages for you, and a delivery."

Kurt stepped over to the desk as the clerk keyed the request into her computer. 

"First, your afternoon appointments are ready and waiting for you in the Harvest Room. And second, there was a package delivered. One moment."

She stepped into the manager's office and returned with a cardboard box, roughly the size of a wine shipment.

 _Another_ , Kurt thought to himself caustically. 

"This was delivered with it," she added, handing him a small envelope.

Kurt thanked her, took the package and the card, and made his way to the Harvest Room. If this was yet another Napa Cab, he'd add it to the growing list of wines to be sampled.

He walked over to the Harvest Room having opened neither the box nor the envelope. Upon seeing the meeting room's foyer, crowded with winemakers and marketing teams from close to a dozen venues, he set the delivery aside and quickly made his way to the head of the banquet table that had been set up with water, notepads, spit bucket and stemware for the tasting.

Before he could sit, he felt a hand at his elbow. Bob Devries, head of the Napa Wine Bureau, pulled him aside. Devries cut an imposing figure, tall and husky, and breathless in his promotion of Napa's signature industry. He'd grown up in the valley, but had spent years as the news reader for the valley's leading — and only — FM radio station.

His deejay baritone still oozed small market radio, and it struck Kurt as thoroughly disingenuous.

"Before you start up again, there's someone I think you ought to meet," he said. "I'm pretty sure we've got _exactly_ who you're looking for."

Devries glanced toward the back of the room, where a lanky young man in a dark blazer and an endless smirk stood, arms crossed.

"Who is he?" Kurt asked.

"His name's—"

"Sebastian Smythe," the man interrupted, extending his hand as he approached Kurt. He had a prep school wardrobe and a used-car salesman's 800-watt smile. "I'm the new head winemaker at Dalton."

Kurt stared for a moment. Dalton Wines was an established, old school winery rich in tradition, considered elite, conservative and unlikely to hire someone as young as the Smythe character to spearhead its winemaking efforts 

"What's your background?" Kurt asked.

"I'm from the east originally, but I was recruited to Napa after I finished my Masters at Cornell a couple of years ago," he said.

 _Cornell?_ Kurt's attention picked up. "I just met someone who was at Cornell about the same time you were. Maybe you know him? Bl—  

"Blaine Anderson," he interrupted again, sounding like he was ready to savor a rich dessert. "Oh yes. I know him _well_. 

Kurt nearly changed he subject, but couldn't resist. "You had classes together?"

"Huh. Classes? Yeah, we had classes."

Everything this Smythe guy said, even if it was innocent or honest — both which he doubted — struck Kurt as overtly sexual. He couldn't change the subject fast enough.

"Tell me about the wine you're submitting."

"Submitting? Let's just say if this contest of yours is what I think it is, I'm _exactly_ what you need."

Kurt gave him a once-over and a withering glance before settling back with his notebook.

"The wine, Mr. Smythe. Tell me about the wine. What's new at Dalton?"

Smythe offered a wicked lopsided grin, and then, finally, settled into his business. A "recalibrated" Meritage, with a new blend of Bordeaux varietals intended to reflect a "fresh, new generational harmony" in the staid Napa institution -- whatever that was supposed to mean. No doubt it was drafted by Dalton's marketing team, which probably had an equal hand in the gelled height of Smythe's prep school pompadour.

The wine itself, Kurt had to admit, was good. A bit of a fresh take on Dalton tradition. More fruit forward, without compromising its complex structure. All in all, solid. A competitor. And while he could not be more turned off by the brashness of Sebastian Smythe, he had to admit the winemaker was cut from the exact mold of _Taste's_ demographic.

Appalling or not, he was on the Napa short list of competitors.

****

About three hours of meeting, swirling, sipping and spitting later, Kurt wrapped up for the day. He said his goodbyes, begged out of a group dinner and prepared to head to his room for the night. Frankly, he didn't need county French cuisine tonight. All he really wanted was a good burger. And water. Lots of water.

He grabbed his satchel and began to head out the door when something caught his eye: The package, delivered during lunch to the front desk.

 _Just one more_ , he thought, setting his things down and picking up the cardboard box.

He set the box aside momentarily and opened the card, embossed with a modern Claddagh, two inverted treble clefs forming the central heart -- the Rhapsody logo.

The note was to the point.

 _You win._  

Kurt gasped. Then he scrambled, looking for something to cut through the packing tape on the delivery. 

He sliced it open with a ballpoint pen. When he opened the box, he unearthed a treasure.  

The bottle was simple, devoid of the gilded or colorful artwork he'd seen on so many samples that day. On the bottle's back, a brief description, a federal liquor disclosure statement and the _Rhapsody_ logo. On the front, the wine's name in a simple script:

_Sotto Voce._

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I want to thank everybody who is reading this. My socks are officially knocked off by the response, by the notes, but the people who say I've driven them to alcholism because they are drinking wine as they read Sotto Voce (C'mon, man! I only update once a week!)
> 
> And thanks as always to tumblr's sillygleekt, who fine-tooth-combs this for my sometimes creative use of punctuation and iconicklaine, who has taken a 30,000-foot view of SV for some invaluable insight.
> 
> I'm travelling this week, but I may use a whole lot of airplane time to try to write some notes about both the wine and music terminology. I've been insanely busy lately, but I swear I'll get to it.


	5. Chapter 5

Kurt wouldn’t open the bottle in the conference room. He tucked it back into the box, grabbed a Bordeaux glass and rushed back to his suite. But as he picked up a corkscrew and prepared to open the bottle, a thought crossed his mind.

Every other wine was tasted with the winemaker or winery team available to answer questions. If Blaine Anderson was serious about entering Rhapsody in the _Taste_ Challenge, he needed to be present when Kurt sampled the wine. There was just one problem: Short of a trip back to Rhapsody, which he surely couldn't find again, he had no idea how to contact him.

He picked up his phone, scrolled the calls and hit redial.

“Santana? I need some help. I think Anderson's on board — a bottle was delivered today — but I don’t know how to reach this guy and I need him present for the tasting.”

“He needs to be present for the tasting, does he? Oh, _really_? So you've decided our little winemaker's worth a taste."

Kurt's tone shifted, landing somewhere between the steely reserve of Dirty Harry and the groveling of a man pleading for is life.

“Don't. It’s protocol — you know that. Everyone has to be treated the same, and everyone is interviewed about the wine while I sample it. I can’t open this bottle — I can’t consider this bottle — if he isn’t here to answer questions."

The line was silent, and Kurt could picture Santana's cocked, well-plucked eyebrow.

“Santana, you’re right, OK? He’s what I'm looking for, what _we're_ looking for, for the _Taste_ Challenge, for the profiles, everything. He's young, and a new face, he's got an impressive background." 

"And backside..." Santana muttered outside the reach of her phone.

"I did a barrel taste at Rhapsody. Those wines weren't anywhere close to ready — but they were good enough for that winery to be at the top of my Sonoma list. They were lively and inventive, unexpected. There were some future stars in those barrels.

"But there was one he wouldn't let me try — wouldn't even discuss it. _Sotto Voce._ Then he goes and sends me a bottle of it like he's lobbying for a spot in this thing. I really don't understand this guy, Santana."

"Do you really need to?"

Kurt paused, and momentarily considered the implications. He didn't need to know why Blaine Anderson had gotten under his skin the way he had. There was no reason why he should be concerned about the winemaker's manners. He'd certainly never been concerned about his own while writing a scathing review.

All he needed to be concerned about was cooperation, because both the wine and its caretaker were clearly destined to be a part of Kurt's project.

"I just need to know how to reach him, because I suddenly have this bottle I know nothing about, other than it's a Rhône blend.”

“Oh, it’s more than a Rhône blend, sweetheart. Blaine's given you something that's almost impossible to get your hands on.”

“And why’s that?”

“Low production. High demand, at least among the lucky few who are familiar with it.  Stellar reputation. The rest is a question for Blaine to answer. I'll send you his number, but give me a few minutes to give him a heads-up.”

****

4:45p Blaine:  _He wants what??_

4:46p Santana:  He needs you to meet with him while he tastes the wine.

4:46p Blaine:  _Why?_

4:47p Santana:  Because it’s protocol. It’s what everyone does. He wants to be able to ask questions while the wine’s fresh on the palate.

As much as he disliked it, Blaine had to admit it made sense. All tastings required precision and consistency, even if the he wasn’t crazy about the process.

4:49p Blaine:  _What do you need?_

4:50p Santana:  I gave him your number.

4:50p Blaine:  _You did what?_

4:52p Santana:  I didn’t trust you to call him, sweet stuff. Expect a call in a few minutes.

****

Kurt followed up quickly, calling Blaine shortly after Santana called him back to tell him Blaine would be expecting his call, and warn him in that _I-know-something-that-you-don't_ tone of hers that Blaine might be difficult to pin down. Kurt wasn’t sure she was talking about scheduling conflicts. He wasn't sure he wanted her to be.

He took a breath, his finger hovering over the texted phone number. He knew he had to talk to this guy, perhaps talk him into working with him. But he wasn't sure he was ready for the conversation.

The meeting at Rhapsody had been so awkward, uncomfortable, so downright hostile that he paused before finally willing himself to make the call.

Blaine picked up on the second ring.

To Kurt's surprise, they exchanged pleasantries, or at least as pleasant as Blaine Anderson seemed capable of, Blaine asking him how his appointments were going and Kurt responding that there are many quality wines in the valley.

“I have to admit, I was surprised to see that bottle.” 

“I was surprised to send it,” Blaine said curtly.

“I would probably have extended an invitation to the _Taste_ Challenge based on what I’d already sampled.”

“So send it back.”

“You know I’m not going to do that, and I can't include wines that haven't even been bottled yet.”

Blaine was silent.

“But I do need information about the wine, and we have a protocol that a representative from the winery must be available at the initial tasting to answers questions. _Sotto Voce_ ’s special. I’d like to know why.”

He heard a sigh, an exhale, on the other end of the line.

"Fine. When and where?"

Kurt thought for a moment. His driver could certainly find the winery, even if he was helpless trying to locate it. On the other hand, appointments had him booked up in Napa most of the week.

Before he could speak, Blaine settled it for him.

"I'm already down the hill. We could meet in Santana's office, or I could come to you. Where are you right now?"

"Yountville. Bardessono," Kurt said.

Kurt could just make out a muffled, caustic chuckle.

"But of course. I'm about half an hour out, and I'm just getting ready to wrap things up here. I can meet you around six o'clock?"

"Have the desk call me."

"Why would I do that when I already have your number? I'll call you when I get there."

 _That arrogant, pretentious ... Shit_ , Kurt thought. _I need my tasting room back._

"I'll see you then."

He called down to the front desk to make sure he could have after-hours access to the Harvest Room.

"I'm sorry Mr. Hummel, but it's booked for an evening event. Don't worry. All your supplies are stored and will be reset in the morning."

"But I have another appointment."

"I'm afraid we're booked solid tonight, Mr. Hummel. I could set you up with some space in the lounge, or I could have supplies sent to your suite."

Kurt did not like conducting these preliminaries in public. Too many interruptions, too many distractions, too many people trying to score a free drink. The suite, with its large dining table and private patio, would have to suffice.

"Let's set up here. I'll need glasses, four of each to be safe. And if you could have bottled water and crackers sent over. Let's make that a cheese plate. And please hurry."

OK, cheese plates didn't conform to protocol, but Kurt was hungry, and a little concerned about missing dinner.

He went to the restroom to freshen up, brushing his teeth, freshly sculpting his upswept hair, cooling the skin around his eyes with a dollop of Lab Series moisturizer. _I could use a clean shirt_ , he thought.

His moment up freshening up for his evening appointment stretched into 30 minutes of styling and wardrobe planning. Finally satisfied, Kurt changed entirely, into dark wash slim jeans, a Hugo Boss shirt in the palest of blues, topped by a trim-tailored black vest. _Casual, but professional_ , he thought, straightening his vest.

His thoughts were interrupted by his ringing cell phone. A 707 area code popped on his caller ID.

"Kurt Hummel."

"So, you want to drink some wine?"

"I don't drink when I'm tasting, Mr. Anderson."

"We'll see about that."

****

Kurt met him in the foyer, and made quick apologies for the improvised tasting space. This was all rather sudden, he said. The conference room's taken for the night, he said. They've been kind enough to set up in my suite so we can have a little privacy, he said.

No, he babbled. _Babbled,_ and he had no idea why.

"I don't usually invite winemakers to my room," he added.

"Sounds like a pickup line," Blaine said, taking in the cut-stone lobby walls and paying little attention to Kurt. He stopped, and looked him square in the eye. "I know it's not."

He led Blaine outside toward his suite. The winemaker seemed to be quietly absorbing the surroundings: the Zen-inspired rock pool, the stylishly minimal landscape, the streams and ponds lining the parklike courtyard separating the two main row of guest rooms at the small resort. He did not appear entirely impressed.

The facility was sleek and rich — and Blaine had made it crystal clear to Kurt on their first meeting that the trappings of 'New Napa' were not, to put it mildly, his cup of tea.

No wonder he was silent.

"It's just up here," Kurt said.

He opened the door to a lush, light-filled suite, a glassed-in fireplace serving as a divider between living and bed rooms, a private courtyard pulled into the rooms through floor-to-ceiling glass, revealing a garden, a stone hot tub, an outdoor shower, and a well-organized selection of wine glasses, bottled water and cheeses on the patio table.

"Well, they're certainly taking care of you," Blaine said, thumbing through a copy of _Napa Style_ on the coffee table.

"I didn't ask for this," Kurt snapped.

"And you didn't turn it down."

Kurt's eyes narrowed, his lips pursed.

"You don't like me very much, do you?"

"I don't know you well enough to not like you. Then again, I don't know you well enough to like you, either," Blaine said, nonplussed.

"Then what is it? What have I done to set you off like this, or are you just one of those naturally surly people? Because let me tell you, it's not nearly as hot as you seem to think it is."

The last remark hit its target. Finally. Blaine looked at Kurt in shock.

"I'm not surly. I don't dislike you. I just don't like what you represent."

"And what's that? Success? Is that what you object to? Because there's nothing wrong with succeeding, Mr. Anderson. It just means that your hard work has paid off. And if this is what you're doing for a living, shouldn't that be your objective?"

"You can define success in a lot of different ways," Blaine said. "And our definitions are worlds apart.

"And if we're going to have to work together, would you knock off this 'Mr. Anderson' shit and just call me Blaine, already?"

"What exactly makes you think it's OK to talk to me like this? Everyone else I've met with has been respectful..."

"Everyone else you've met with has sucked up to you to get into this... this contest... or get their winery profiled. You forget — I don't want to be here."

"Then why _are_ you here, Blaine? Why'd you send that bottle that you refused to even talk about the other day? Why are you here?"

Kurt could see Blaine’s breath quicken, his eyes harden and his jaw set. Under most circumstances, Kurt wouldn't feel safe, but he felt emboldened by the conflict, like Blaine had thrown down the gauntlet and Kurt was more than willing to pick it up and throw it right back in his face.

This wasn't his usually professional fiestiness. He felt challenged, insulted, drawn out and confused by Blaine's churlish attitude, and if it took an argument to figure him out, Kurt was more than up for the challenge.

"Because I owe it to them."

"I don't understand," Kurt said, softening his tone.

"I know. That's kind of my point. Let's just get this done, OK?"

Kurt looked away and nodded.

He walked to the patio, carrying the bottle of _Sotto Voce_ he had left in the living room and picking up a sommelier's corkscrew.

"Fine. Are you willing to talk about this wine?"

Blaine followed, and cast an exaggerated sigh, resigned to cooperating. "What do you need to know?"

"The blend? The vineyards? The story? What makes this your reserve? Something about this wine is special, and I'd like to know what and why, before I open the bottle. How about we start with the name? Why _Sotto Voce_?"

"An ode to Teddy Roosevelt?" Blaine said with a smirk and a shrug. 

Kurt dealt him a withering glance.

"Fine. It's meant to be subtle. The strongest words can be said in the softest voices, and still be resonant. I made _Sotto Voce_ in a way that should make a statement, but without being in-your-face about it. It should be subtle, interpretive. Look, I don't want this to sound like some marketing spiel. It should be soft and velvety to the palate, with subtle undertones, but it should also linger."

 "Why is it reserve?"

"It's the usual: the best grapes, traditional fermentation methods, no additives."

"The entire wine?"

"Yes. I pull certain parts of the harvest for it, and its crush, fermentation and press — well, it isn't really pressed — are all handled separately from the rest of Rhapsody."

"How? What do you mean, it isn't pressed?"

Kurt could read the discomfort on Blaine's face, but he continued to press — more gently than before — for answers.

"How Blaine?"

"I do it by myself. By hand. An old basket press. And I only use the free run. Any juice off the press goes into other Rhapsody blends. It doesn't make for a lot of wine."

"You're kidding, right? No one does that."

"I do. _I have_."

Kurt opened the knife on the corkscrew and slit open the the dark burgundy sleeve topping the bottle, rapidly, carefully, exactly — displaying the skills he acquired during his restaurant years. He closed the knife and flipped the device over, pulling the worm out perpendicular to the handle. He slipped it gently into the center of the cork, and submerged it with a swift twist, never compromising the cork. 

He flipped the device, pulled, and with a pop, the wine was open. 

Blaine looked on passively as Kurt inspected the cork. It was still fresh, with minimal wine intrusion. He passed the cork under his nose and inhaled. The rich aromas of the wine had infused themselves into the cork _just so_ , just enough to give a hint of what was to come.

Kurt looked at Blaine, pulled a second Bordeaux glass in front of him, and poured a small sample into each glass. He nodded, extending an invitation.

And then Kurt initiated his well-rehearsed ritual. He inspected the color, an inky maroon, more dark crimson than purple, the color of a deep red rose. He placed the wine on the table and swirled, then held it up to inspect the legs. The wine clung to the glass, slowly drifting back down into the depths of the bell. And then he plunged his nose deep into the bowl, breathing in the soft bouquet. 

He concentrated on the wine’s subtle details: the sweet smoke of the lower vineyard, the richness of dark berries, layered with delicate hints of spring wildflowers. 

It was unusual. 

It was remarkable. 

He broke from ritual, and looked over the rim of the glass at Blaine, who watched him intently.

Kurt refocused and raised the glass, tipped it slightly to Blaine, closed his eyes and allowed the slightest taste to caress his tongue.

He went still, eyes closed, and swallowed.

Then he reopened his eyes, wide and stunned, his mouth open slightly, and stared at Blaine in blank wonder. 

"Good, eh?" Blaine said, the narrowest crease of a smile crossing his face.

"This is all... all from your vineyard. It's all estate grown?"

"It's all from Rhapsody vineyards, yeah. I keep it in the family, so to speak."

Kurt breathed in the rich Rhône red again, closing his eyes and exhaling.

"You're welcome to have some more, you know."

"This is a tasting, Blaine," Kurt said, opening his notebook and hurriedly taking down notes. "I need some more information from you. The blend, the racking period, the harvest..."

"I expected that. It's all here," Blaine said, pulling a sheet of paper from his jacket pocket that detailed the wine’s history, from first spring prune to bottling. "Knock yourself out."

"Can I just ask, why didn't you want me tasting this wine? It's stunning."

"Look, _Sotto Voce_ isn't like reserves from the big wineries. I don't make enough of it to market it, not really, but there is a demand for it. It's very... personal. I make it for myself, to have a wine that's truly made by _my_ hands, that's artisanal, that's unique. Something that lets me get in touch with the roots of winemaking, of all of this," he said, his eyes taking in the expanse of his surroundings. "Ultimately, it's about the vines, the grapes. It's _not_ about technology or this yeast or that yeast. It's pure winemaking that goes back centuries."

"You don't sell it?"

"Well, I might sell some of it," Blaine said, finally picking up his glass, topping off the tiny sample Kurt had poured, then adding more to Kurt's glass as well. "And I give some of it away. And some of it gets donated..."

Blaine gave his glass the slightest hint of a swirl, inhaled lightly and raised the glass to his lips.

His eyes still closed, he smiled, the first real smile he had let Kurt see, like the sun was rising on his face. 

"OK, have I answered your questions?" Blaine asked, earning only a nod as Kurt sipped at the glass. "Because I'd like to ask you something."

"Sure, of course," Kurt said. "What would you like to know?"

Blaine sipped at the wine and tilted his head back, looking up at the twilight sky before coming back to earth, to the quiet detente being struck over a bottle of rare wine.

"You gonna eat this cheese?"

 

****

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks as always to silygleekt, who I will drive mad some day with the way I stubbornly cling to ellipses and occasional epiteths. The fact that she's kept up, and made meaningful suggestions while juggling far more complex matters in RL simply dazzles me. Thanks also to buckeyegrrl for the awesome cover art and iconicklaine, who has selflessly read through some pretty rough copy, just to see if it makes sense. Thank goodness, sometimes it does.


	6. Chapter 6

Blaine walked the vineyard, later than usual, pruning and training the young spring vines. It was a late morning after a later night, and he was trying to will his body to catch up with where he'd expected to be with his work for the day.

Diego had told him to go back to bed, to take it easy, but Blaine simply harumphed, grabbed his tools and hiked to the upper reaches of Rhapsody.

Blaine had expected the previous night's run to Napa to be brief. He would watch Hummel sample the wine, answer a couple of questions and get the hell out of Yountville. But it wasn't that simple.

A tasting became a drink, and a drink became a bottle — Blaine really should have bet him that he would end up drinking it — and as the wine disappeared, they also polished off a platter of local artisan cheese.

They started talking, and not just about the elegant Syrah blend they were drinking.

The next thing he knew, they were seated at a corner table down the road at Mustards Grill, ordering burgers and Bordeaux, and talking deep into the night. 

It was the damn _Sotto Voce_ that opened the floodgates, he realized.

He knew before he delivered the bottle that Kurt would fall for the lush red wine. Hell, he'd loved the barrel-tasting, nearly extended an invitation to this event based on wine that wasn't even ready to drink. 

_Sotto Voce_ was a likely shoe-in to be chosen for the competition, but Blaine still wasn't sure he wanted it in the spotlight. First, he didn't have enough available stock for the demand that such exposure could prompt. He had enough to make some bottles available to his wine club, provide some as contributions to local charity auctions, give some as very select gifts and save some for himself. Occasionally, he would make a few cases of it available to a friend with a small wine shop in Petaluma, but that was it. The nature of its construction, dependent on that first, pure free run of juice out of the press, placed fairly tight limits on its production.

The competitors from Napa? They'd be ready to mass market their product — at a mark-up to account for the prestige of having been selected for this dog and pony show — after the _Taste_ Challenge.

It wasn't official, of course. Kurt couldn't actually extend the Challenge invitation over dinner and drinks, as they shared stories of growing up, coming out and what had drawn them into the strange but often wonderful world of wine.

That news would arrive soon enough, in some gilded envelope whose delivery would be highly publicized by _Taste_ , probably in one of Kurt's columns.

That it would arrive was hardly in doubt. What was questionable was how much time Blaine had spent thinking about this new acquaintance, and how much they actually had in common. 

Blaine snipped away at the unwelcome, leggy vines, training the plants to grow upward, leaving room for light, for photosynthesis and for eventual fruit. He snipped away, trying to clear his head. He tried to will himself back under control, leaving thoughts of eastern wine critics and an unwelcome competition out of his mind.

He didn't plan to actually _like_ Kurt Hummel, but he stuck around, suggested dinner, ordered another bottle and talked, smiled, listened and laughed for one reason: He was enjoying himself, and the company.

The burger, of all things, had marked a turning point in their rapport. He had Kurt pegged as a foodie, someone who would insist on dining in one of Napa's Michelin Star-rated restaurants. But instead he had asked Blaine where he could get a decent burger, because he'd been having serious cravings since lunchtime.

Mustards was a local institution, with a menu to satisfy a discerning palate, but it also grilled up a mean cheeseburger — and offered a wine menu befitting a Napa restaurant.

Blaine listened intently as Kurt told him about his supportive family, his early ambitions, about falling into the business of wine when he'd really expected to write theater reviews. 

Kurt asked about the Rhapsody logo — that unusual Claddagh with the treble clefs — and the music theme that carried through each of the winery's offerings. Blaine's standard answer to the question was to reference a love of music, and how music and art shared traditions with wine. 

But somehow, this time he didn't feel inclined to give the standard answer.

So Blaine told him the truth. Sipping at the rich red wine, he shared the story of the smart kid that grew up with piano lessons and school glee clubs, who came out to his family in his early teens, and then declared his wishes to pursue music as a career. He spoke of a successful family, already uncomfortable with his sexuality, that refused to subsidize a college education that wouldn't lead to a "respectable" career, and that held both his tuition and a trust fund hostage to conformity.

He spoke of how that painful decision inadvertently led to the best and most influential moment of his life — the day he chatted up an oenology student in a Cornell chem lab, and came to realize that the science of winemaking was also an art, one that he could excel at.

"Very sneaky, Mr. Anderson," Kurt said, conspiratorially. 

"I met their conditions. They paid for my Bachelor's degree in the very respectable field of chemistry — with a specialty in oenology and viticulture. I turned 21, my trust fund was released, and I was off to California six months later."

"I'm sorry," Kurt said.

"I'm not. Your family supported you, supported who you are. My family supported me with money — so long as I didn't embarrass them, or stand out in any way. I did everything I needed for as long as I had to. When I was done, I had the education and enough of a nest egg to start a winery and make a life for myself. I didn't look back."

"Do you talk to them?"

"Only when I absolutely have to. But my brother and I stay in touch."

"Don't you miss them?"

"This is my life now, and I'm good with it."

Kurt rested his chin on his hands, touching his fingers to his lips like a professor considering a student's not-quite-right answer. He raised an eyebrow, then his eyes followed, locking on to Blaine's gaze.

"But are you _happy_?"

"I love what I do, and I've got a lot of good people around me. People who only judge me on my wine. At least that's how it works on the other side of the valley."

He couldn't remember the last time he'd opened up like this to someone. Santana, Patty and Diego knew the details of his prior life, but had learned it over time. But whether it was the wine or the company, or maybe something in between, Blaine felt unexpectedly comfortable spilling the details he'd carefully shielded from so many people over the years.

Kurt seemed to take in every word, keeping quiet while holding eye contact, asking the occasional question, never overstepping. He shared his fries and poured more wine, and confessed how a whip-smart boss had taken advantage of a vulnerable period in his personal life to ship him across country for a project that didn't have his full confidence.

They talked and lingered until closing time, and when they stood to leave, more wobbly than expected, Blaine called a cab rather than getting behind the wheel 

By the time they climbed into the taxi, the conversation had come to a natural halt, and they sat quietly for the short ride to Bardessono. The cab waited while Blaine walked Kurt inside. They paused in the foyer, eyes cast down and feet kicking at concrete. It felt almost like...

"Thanks, Blaine. For dinner, and the evening. For sharing your winewith me." Kurt said,  looking up. 

He extended his hand. "Thank you."

They shook, like businessmen wrapping a deal. But for Blaine, the moment played out in slow motion, and a wisp of a chill rushed up his arm at the touch.

He nodded, and pulled away. "Goodnight," he said, lingering slightly before turning back to his cab.

Yes, Blaine really needed to stop thinking about it. _Just a night out. Just a talk. Just an acquaintance.That's all._

_This isn't you, Anderson. Get to work. Tune it out. Let it pass. This is nothing, nothing at all._

He snipped away at the vines, and did his level best to focus his thoughts on the work at hand. By late afternoon, he'd succeeded, leaving a viridian trail in his wake until the vibration of an incoming text jarred him into consciousness.

3:32p  Kurt:  Are you alive today?

_OK, I'll bite,_ Blaine thought.

3:34p  Blaine:  _Pruning the upper deck — a little slowly._

3:35p  Kurt: Your truck's still at Mustards 

3:36p  Blaine:  _Checking up on me?_

3:36p  Kurt:  :0     NO

3:38p  Blaine:  _Kidding, Kurt._

3:39p  Kurt:  You need help retrieving it?

3:40p  Blaine:  _Hadn't thought about it._

3:41p  Kurt:I have a driver.

3:42p  Blaine:  _And?_

3:44p  Kurt:I could send him over.

3:45p  Blaine:  _So Taste magazine's offering me a ride._

3:45p  Kurt:Courtesy of the Napa Wine Bureau.

Blaine had to admit, he liked the irony.

3:47p  Kurt:  And there's something I need to talk to you about. I could send the car for you and maybe we can meet before you head back up the hill?

He did need his truck back.

3:48p  Blaine:  _I'll need about 90 minutes to finish and clean up._

****

Blaine didn't make a habit of riding around the valley in the back of Lincoln Town Cars. The backseat was roomy and the ride smooth, but he found the entire experience an  uncomfortably poor fit.

The 40 minutes to Yountville felt like hours. He fumbled with his phone, checked his email, read the roadside signs, tapped his fingers on the armrest and checked his email again. 

Eventually, he let his mind drift. Blaine looked unfocused through the darkly tinted windows, each lengthy row of the passing vineyards blurring like earthen pinwheels as the car rushed past. 

_What was last night?_ It started out as business, but became something a good deal more personal, and with someone he had been determined to keep boxed in the smallest, deepest compartment of his mind.

The wine had flowed, to be sure, but so had the conversation — freely, easily, comfortably, as if they had known each other for years, not days.

Their upbringings could not have been more different — Blaine, the sequestered son of a wealthy businessman; Kurt, the treasured only child of a mechanic/widower. Yet they shared so much in common. Ambitions. Ethics. Even nosy, sarcastic, meddling friends. 

He found it more and more difficult to keep Kurt — _Oh god, I'm calling him by his first name,_ Blaine thought— relegated to that cold, tiny compartment.

He picked up his truck where he'd left it, tried unsuccessfully to tip the driver, then headed up the road to Bardessono. He found Kurt in the foyer, tapping on an iPad.

"Walls closing in on you?" Blaine said, folding his arms and leaning up against a pillar.

"Look what the chauffeur dragged in," Kurt said. "The room's fine. I just figured I'd get a little work done while I was waiting. Deadline approaches."

"Ah. Those pesky editors."

"Exactly. She's breathing down my neck for copy. Um, thanks for stopping by."

"Of course. You wanted to talk?"

"Not here. You want to grab a bite, or maybe get a glass..."

"Yes."

"How about if I have them send something over to the room? It's nice out. We can sit in the courtyard."

Minutes later, they were seated at the patio table, watching the early evening sky turn the shade of a orange sorbet, opening a '99 Franciscan Cabernet and nibbling on tapas.

"How can I help you, Mr. Hummel?"

"Who _is_ this cooperative person? I hardly recognize him."

"Oh, what a difference a burger and a couple of bottles of wine will make," Blaine said, a smile cresting his lips.

"If I'd only known before I met you. It would have made my life so much easier."

"It wouldn't have helped. I didn't know you, and I'm still not 100 percent sold on this project of yours."

"That's what I wanted to talk to you about, Blaine."

It turned out that Kurt had spent a sizable part of his day on the phone with Sonoma Valley wineries from the list that Santana had provided. The results, as he feared, were not ideal. His calls were met with skepticism and polite but noncommittal responses to his requests for submissions to the vetting process.

Blaine could have told him as much. The _Taste_ Challenge had been a subject of considerable discussion at this winemaker's dinner the week before, and his peers were as leery of it as he had been. While several of them would have welcomed the publicity, they all feared it was nothing but a set-up.

"Have you talked to Santana about this?" Blaine asked.

"Yes, and she said to talk to you."

Blaine rolled his eyes.

"Always helpful, isn't she?"

"I've known her for years, you know. And she's been like this since the day we met — all  rough edges and snark on the outside, but there's a good heart in there, somewhere."

"That she does her damnedest to hide."

"Always. But you know what, Blaine? Everything she does, she does for a reason. Ninety percent of the time she won't tell you what that reason is. She just gives you _that_ look. 

Kurt mimicked the Santana sneer, drawing laughs from Blaine 

"But if you don't figure out what she's up to..." Blaine started.

"You're done for," Kurt finished, raising his glass to meet Blaine's in a toast to the acerbic leader of the Sonoma Wine Association."You know, I think she feels you may have more pull with your neighbors than she does."

"I doubt that," Blaine said. He wouldn't betray the conversation they had in Santana's office when Kurt first arrived; how she asked for his help participating, acting as a local leader. Blaine felt she'd overestimated his influence with his peers, but he also knew that he had markers he could call in — if the situation merited it.

He also suspected that Santana wouldn't hesitate to try to set them up is she thought it would further her cause, and Blaine was no longer certain that he would object.

"They're not going to line up to get you to taste their wine without meeting you, Kurt. They're not going to respond to a cold call or an email saying they should enter their wine in your contest, even if the message is from the wine editor at _Taste_ magazine.

"They'll want to be wooed."

"Wooed?"

"Yes, wooed. In a manner of speaking, yes. This side of the valley is all about promotion, big sales. And they can afford to take the time to send a marketing team to you with a full compliment of wines to sample on your schedule, or to send a car to bring you to them. But boutique wineries? It's not so easy for us. I'm not just the owner of Rhapsody, I'm the chief winemaker, the vineyard manager, the bottling agent, the marketing director, the distributor. I've got a few guys to help me in the vineyards and around the winery. But for the most part? I'm Rhapsody wines. Me and my assistant. 

"And these small wineries that you want to recruit? They're all run exactly the same way. We don't have large staffs. Most of us don't have our own tasting rooms. We pool our resources and split time at a community tasting room, those of us who can. You need to go to _them_ , Kurt. Let them get to know you. Give them a reason to trust you."

"I'm not sure I understand."

Blaine hesitated, and watched the last glimmers of sunlight sink below the Carneros Hills. "You understand why I was reluctant to work with you, right?"

"A crisis in confidence? Intimidated by my powerful presence?" Kurt intended a lighthearted jab, but one look at the serious look on Blaine's face and he wished he could reel the words back in, but it was too late. "I'm sorry. It's because of all this, isn't it?" he said, nodding toward the luxury suite.

"In a way. You've got to realize that to us little guys, this looks like a big set-up."

"It isn't, you know. Or it shouldn't be. I can help make sure that it isn't. I know that Quinn sees this as a marketing opportunity for the magazine, but it doesn't mean it's rigged, Blaine. It's a blind tasting. The judges will never know the Sonoma wines from the Napa wines. And I choose the wineries and the judges. I won't let the big wineries roll over you. 

"I promise."

Blaine let a moment pass, letting the words sink in. 

"I believe you," he said, his voice hushed. "But you have to earn their respect. And to do that, you have to understand where they're coming from."

"I'm not sure what you mean."

"You have to understand that you don't appeal to the family farm the way you do a multi-national conglomerate, Kurt. It's a different pitch."

Kurt hadn't expected a lesson in marketing from the young winemaker, but pressed for more. "But wouldn't a small winery have even more incentive to be involved in this? Wouldn't this be an opportunity for them?"

"Not necessarily, and it's certainly not the same motivation," Blaine said. "And that's what you need to zero in on."

Kurt tilted his head, covering his mouth with his hand, deep in thought. He aimlessly swirled his wine glass with the other, as if the rotation of the plummy liquid would somehow focus his train of thought.

"Blaine, I want to write about you, one of the columns. I want to feature Rhapsody, and you."

Blaine stared at the table, furrowed his brow and fidgeted with his glass.

"What?"

"My column. You. Rhapsody. I want to feature you."

"Why?" Blaine said, still appearing to concentrate more on the patio table than on Kurt.

"The Challenge isn't the only reason I'm here. You know that. Quinn expects columns — lots of columns. I'm supposed to be featuring the up-and-coming winemakers of the region. Who represents that better than you?"

"Isn't it enough that I gave you that wine, that I'm cooperating?" Blaine said, his voice sounding uncertain. 

"And why would you object, Blaine? You're in the wine business, after all. One story about you isn't going to turn you into Gallo."

"That's not what I'm concerned about."

Blaine finally looked up, his eyes a bit red, his face strained. 

"Why me, Kurt? Because I'm gay? Is that it? Profile the gay winemaker, because that's something new?"

"No! I'm didn't use the pages of _Taste_ to come out, and I wouldn't do that to you, if that's what you're..."

"I'm out. That's not it. But, why me, Kurt?"

"Our readers haven't heard of you before," Kurt said, unconvincingly.

"Is that all?"

"You're a leader among your peers."

Blaine just stared at him.

"Because I've never met anyone like you," Kurt said.

The conversation, once smooth as oak-aged Scotch, come to a shaky halt, neither willing to move forward. Kurt finally dove into the void.

"Why did you send me that bottle of _Sotto Voce_ , Blaine? What made you decide to submit your wine? I mean, I'm delighted you changed your mind, but I can't say I understand."

"I told you already."

"You were cryptic."

"They need me. Like I said, I'm still not crazy about this. I'm worried, too. And what if it gets that attention that _you_ think we covet? I haven't got stock to cover that. I don't make _that_ much wine, Kurt. And I'm not sure I want to. It's never been my goal to run a big winery. I had my chance. I turned it down. But even if this is it a set-up, someone needs to represent the small winemakers, and it's been made pretty clear that I need to help with that.

"I don't want to let my friends down. If they need me to do this, and you want me, I'm in."

"You're not doing this for Rhapsody?' 

"No."

"You're not doing this for yourself?"

"No. Not really. But if my role, whatever that might be, is to represent small wineries and artisan winemaking, then yeah, maybe I'm doing this for me, a little."

Their eyes met again, and Blaine felt the breath stutter in his throat. He looked down to his glass, running his finger along the rim, and raised his eyes to meet Kurt's again.

"Yeah, maybe I'm doing this for me."

The stilted silence still pervaded the patio, the only noise the sound of a flock of Ravens squawking in the distance. It was an 800-pound gorilla that invited itself along to their meeting, and there was no safe way to encourage it to leave.

"Blaine, until this event is over, I'm supposed to be an impartial judge. I can't... I have to be neutral. I can't do anything to even hint of a preference. I may not judge the tasting, but I do decide who competes, and I can't do anything to compromise that."

The worry lines across Blaine's forehead doubled as he pulled his brows together. He steadied his quivering breath and rose silently, half-chewing his lower lip, trying to figure what to make of the words.

"I really did enjoy dinner last night, Blaine."

Blaine nodded and picked up his keys to leave. He paused, his back to Kurt. "I'll help you with the wineries, Kurt. But the column? The feature? I just don't know if that's a good idea."

"If you're going to compete in the Challenge, then you'll have to."

"Let's cross that bridge when or if we come to it, OK?" Blaine said, and walked out without looking back.

****

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A slightly belated update, due to some unforeseen complications. But back on schedule for next week, I swear!
> 
> Thanks for all the reads and kinds comments. It mens so much to know that people are enjoying it!


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A change of pace in Chapter 7: The first of Kurt's "A Year in the Valley" columns for Taste Magazine. We'll see a few of them throughout Sotto Voce, and they will be stand-alone chapters that typically run a little shorter than the other chapters. You can read the text version below, or read "the magazine version," a special format created by sillygleekt, at http://sillygleek.com/tastemag/uncorked/07-napa-vs-sonoma.htm
> 
> Wow! Thanks, sillygleekt! That's incredible!

** UNCORKED **

Kurt Hummel, _Taste_ Wine Editor

**A YEAR IN THE VALLEY  
Napa vs. Sonoma: Battle of the Titans, or David vs. Goliath?**

I never planned on being a globetrotter. Oh, I may look jet-set on the outside — ready to hit a club, walk a runway and enjoy a glamorous life. But scratch beneath the surface and I'm really just a homebody — someone who likes to cozy up by a fireplace with a book, a significant other or a glass of a favorite wine.

Maybe all three.

I've been a nomad for you, ever since the brilliant and beautiful Quinn Fabray decided to school us all in what it means to have _Taste_.

For some time now, this publication has taken me around the world to bring you the best and brightest trends in wine. Each trip was jus a blip on my calendar, a moment to meet and become acquainted with new wineries, winemakers and vintages we didn't yet know, followed by a moment to recover from jet lag.

I never expected it to lead me to pack my things and move — to _farmland_ , no less. To an area we all know so well, some might say too well. But that's exactly what our chief _Taste_ -maker told me I would be doing for the next year.

I have packed up my New York City life and moved to California's Wine Country.

This new endeavor, in honor of our fifth anniversary, will both look back from and forward to one of the world's premier wine regions.

For the next year, I will be living in and reporting from the place many of us have visited and have all more than likely enjoyed. It hardly sounds in keeping with _Taste_ 's tradition of profiling new and cutting edge lifestyle trends, now does it?

But stay with me for a moment. Let me build my case, and share a little history before I pull the curtains back on our future, at least for this next year.

In the 1970s, Napa was probably better known for cheap jug wine than for smooth Chardonnays or lush Cabernets. That all changed with the Paris Wine Tasting of 1976, the Judgement of Paris, when California Cabernet Sauvignons and Chardonnays were pitted in blind tests against legendary Bordeaux by Mouton-Rothschild and Haut-Brion.

Now a piece of American wine lore, California's sweep of the blind tasting — a 1973 Stag's Leap Cabernet Sauvignon and the illustrious 1973 Chateau Montelena Chardonnay taking top honors — was not the first time California winemakers had beaten their French counterparts, but it was the most influential.

The competition put California wines on the map, and instantly raised the awareness and the collective reputation of Napa Valley wineries.

Meanwhile, on the other side of the valley, Sonoma County was developing its own wine industry, less heavy on the heat-loving Cabs and Chardonnays, and largely modeled on the slightly more delicate Rhône varietals, Syrahs and Pinots kissed by morning fog, its temperature raised by the afternoon sun and cooled by Pacific breezes.

Sonoma has also earned a global reputation, but it has never equaled the caché of its neighbor to the east. In some ways, Sonoma is the Napa of 1976 and Napa its French counterpart.

The fields may look alike, but the spirit that runs through these neighboring rivals could not be more different. Napa's Highway 29 is lined by major vineyard estates with big reputations and bigger budgets. You'd be hard-pressed to even find many of the boutique wineries of Sonoma, which are tucked along unmarked roads as though hiding from the world.

Do Sonomans have a chip on their shoulder about their famous Napa neighbors? Perhaps. Have the well-healed wineries of Napa become too corporate, too big for their own good? Possibly.

That's what _Taste_ wants is set to find out, and why I have moved to California for the next year. the foreseeable future.

I've been told that I should store my Tom Ford and buy myself some (more) Levis. That I should drop the pretense of style in favor of a utilitarian wardrobe more befitting the life of a budding vintner.

Well, I may have to store some fashionable threads, but it doesn't mean I'll be holding my tongue.

For the next year, I will be taking a close look at California's wine industry, with a series of columns featuring both the established brands that have become the household names of fine wine, as well as the up-and-coming artisan winemakers who ply their trade along the Russian River and Alexander Valley.

This won't be a fly-in, fly-out treatment. We've seen that before, in those other magazines. We've even seen that here before. By relocating, I intend to to become a part of the California wine culture rather than just a visiting critic, all to bring _Taste_ readers an insider's view of the wine country like they've never seen before.

And this summer, the _Taste_ Challenge will bring the best of the best together for a head-to-head blind tasting. It's Sonoma versus Napa. It's boutique versus conglomerate. It's David versus Goliath.

Napa has tourists, spa resorts, Michelin Star restaurants and 95+ point wines. It has the big names of Big Reds. Sonoma has unmarked dirt roads, some quality saloons and an abundance of pickup trucks. It may also have some hidden gems. Is it Napa versus France, the sequel? We'll see.

It's the Judgement at... Well, I'm not at liberty to divulge _that_ just yet, but we'll let you know soon enough. I am already evaluating the wines, and meeting their makers, as it were, to set our slate of competitors. And these early tastings have introduced me to people who may shape the world of wine for decades to come. Some may draw you in like a magnet. Others want nothing more than to make wine and be left alone. Some harness science to raise wine to new heights. Others devote their efforts to the craft of centuries-old techniques.

But whether you want to love them or hate them — or maybe a little bit of both — you will want to drink their wine.


	8. Chapter 8

Kurt couldn't wait any longer. Three silent days had passed since he had last seen Blaine. Three days of voicemails and texts and emails, all unanswered.

Nothing.

Kurt had kept busy meeting with the last of the Napa wineries, and outlining ideas for future columns, and answering Quinn's volley of questions about logistics, likely competitors and his contacts in both counties.

He'd sampled the last of the wines, full-bodied Cabs and buttery Chardonnays. He had quizzed their makers, inspected their labels and accounted for everything on a 100-point scale scoresheet.

He was done, at least with the Napa half of the equation.

Sonoma, on the other hand, remained the missing piece of the puzzle.

And Blaine Anderson, who had assured him he would help open the door for Kurt with Sonoma's smaller winemakers, was MIA.

Kurt didn't understand it. He thought they'd had a breakthrough. They'd spent hours talking, and about so much more than wine. It wasn't just a simple detente, or so he'd thought. But he'd done the right thing. He'd done what ethics dictated. He'd kept things professional.

And Blaine had retreated, pulled back into that shell he had seemed so deeply ensconced in when they'd first met.

Just after things seemed to have thawed after their chilly introduction, the temperature took a sudden turn south, and now, Kurt couldn't even get him to return a message.

He figured he had one option. He summoned his driver and headed to Sonoma Square.

****

"Well if it isn't the man of the hour, our own little cause célèbre," Santana said, sneering, foregoing the pretense of pleasantries.

"What are you talking about? And hello, Santana."

"Your column? It went live today. Thanks for painting us as bumpkins, city boy."

Kurt was dumbfounded. All he'd done was outline the Year in the Valley project, and tease the Taste Challenge. What could possibly...

"Did she put you up to this?" Santana hissed. "Is she just rigging this thing for Napa?"

"It's a blind tasting. How would she rig it? And I'm choosing the wines. Neither of us are judging it. But Napa will win by default if I don't get some Sonoma wineries on board," Kurt snapped back. "You told me to talk to Blaine. I did. He said he'd help. And then, nothing."

Santana seemed to have little concern for that, at least for the moment. She zeroed in on Kurt's column, on Quinn's motives, on issues of trust — and she was giving him an earful.Â 

"Why is it you only want the boutiques over here? We've got our big names, too. Is this just about a good storyline, Kurt? Because if it is, and you're setting these people up to fail, the answer is no."

"I wouldn't do that," he said. "And yes, we're featuring the smaller wineries of Sonoma. What's wrong with that? This is a chance they may never get again."

"Why wouldn't you announce where this little shindig of yours is taking place, Kurt? Is it because it will be in Napa?"

"Santana, we haven't locked down a site yet. We're still in negotiations—"

"I'll bet," she said, cutting him off. "With Meadowood, or the CIA, or maybe at the Beringer Estate."

"And if you could hold it in Sonoma, where would it be? The Fairmont? I stopped by there. Lovely old place — and showing its age. The Renaissance? Too small."

"We have large wineries too."

"Remember that it was the Californians that won the Judgement at Paris, Santana? Location doesn't matter."

"Like hell it doesn't. What about neutral turf?"

"San Francisco? Maybe, but Quinn wants it tied to the Wine Country, and I agree."

"Then the Mondavi Center. It's new. It's big. It's at a university. It's located right next to the EVO department."

"At UC Davis?"

"Not far from the valley, but not on anyone's turf, technically."

Kurt promised to take a look, and would suggest it if the university's theater complex looked like it would suit their needs. 

It was enough to soothe Santana's fiery temper, at least for the time being — enough that she was willing to print a list of contacts from small Sonoma wineries for him, with the caveat that he had to do the legwork.

"He told me I have to woo them. Over in Napa, they're wooing me," Kurt said.

"You mean Blaine? We're stubborn over here, Kurt. I mean, you could go with our big wineries and make your life easier, but if you want the boutiques, then you're going to have to sell this idea, because they don't trust Quinn, or you, or this promotion. And truth be told, when it comes to this, I'm not sure I do either — even if we have known each other since college."

"What about Blaine?"

"What about him?"

"I need him..."

Santana cocked an eyebrow.

"... for this. He's got pull with these guys, doesn't he?"

"He does."

"What is it? I mean I get that he's smart, and I can tell by the wine that he's good, but I know enough winemakers to know that you have to earn that sort of influence — and he seems a little... a little young for that."

"Maybe he is that good," Santana said, with a tilt of the head that suggested she had a far better understanding of this than Kurt.

"Santana, when did you go soft?"

"Anything but. But I'd go to the mat for that man, Kurt. Let me explain something that I don't think you've figured out yet. Blaine's got integrity, and people around here reward that. He's a leader, even though he's young and from out of town, because he puts other people before himself, he gives back to this community and to this industry and to this life. He's the real deal, Kurt, and I thought I knew you well enough to assume that you would have figured that out pretty quickly, but apparently not."

In that moment, Kurt decided to tell her about their dinner, ostensibly a business meeting but god by the end of the night it had felt like a first date, a really good first date. He told her about how he'd caught up with his senses and reined them back in at the last minute, tucking them into emotional lockdown. And he told her how Blaine, who had finally opened up over the course of the meal, had turned cool again when he'd tried to explain himself.

How it had gone from Point A to Point B Kurt still wasn't sure. Maybe the wine. That luscious Sotto Voce, which he'd only intended to evaluate. Instead, he'd ended up drinking half the bottle, and agreeing to join Blaine for dinner and more wine, and for a conversation that leaped far from winemaking and dove deep into cautiously-guarded private lives.

"You two, hmm? Yeah, I should have expected that."

"There's nothing there, Santana. He's not even returning my calls, not even to follow up on the Challenge. He said he'd help, but nothing."

Santana simply rolled her eyes.

"Kurt, for a smart guy, you can be awfully dense."

"What?"

"He opened up to you and you shut the door. You had this moment, or whatever it was, and you asked him to help you professionally, then shut him down personally. Then, that column..."

"What about it?"

"What about it? Let's see," she said, walking over to her desk and turning the monitor toward him. "Chip on our shoulder? Dirt roads and pickup trucks? Saloons! We have bars, Kurt. Damn good ones. And some pretty fucking fine restaurants, too. And winemakers that can mop the floor with the best that Dalton can throw at us. These are clichés, Kurt. Worse yet, they're directed at one person."

"That's not true..."

"Kurt, you've met with Sonoma wineries before, but in the context of this project of yours, you've talked to exactly two people from our side the valley: myself, and Blaine. And I certainly don't drive a truck."

"Do you think he's—"

"I think he's pissed," she cut in. "And I think he has every right to be."

"You told me to work with him. Now I can't even reach him."

"Well, you're just going to have to get that ass of yours up that hill and talk to him, because I doubt he's going to go out of his way for you after that. Not right now."

****

Kurt handed the address to the driver, who quickly tapped it into the Town Car's GPS system, charting a course for Rhapsody. He navigated the winding, unmarked roads of Glen Ellen with ease, and Kurt lost himself in the passing oak trees and barns and freshly-pruned rows of budding vines.Â 

When it came time to turn up the property's private drive, the chauffeur eased the sedan around the soft sand that had trapped Kurt's tiny rental car that first day in the valley.Â 

Kurt allowed himself a moment to take in the view. He hadn't really paid attention to the vineyard on that first trip, something he suddenly regretted.

He had visited hundreds of wine estates because of his job, but never had he seen a vineyard quite like Rhapsody. The trellised vines were tucked neatly into the hillside property, embraced by a ring of ancient oaks.

They were meticulously pruned, their sturdy gray trunks supporting fresh buds and delicate tendrils of spring green.

Upper and lower vineyards appeared to be separated by a small lake or reservoir located not far from the winery building — basically, a large barn — where Kurt first sampled the vineyard's wares.Â 

Higher up the hill, nestled among an oak grove, was the house he'd caught only a rough glimpse of before. It wasn't a palazzo or a castle or chateau like so many vineyard mansions. It was simple, a classic two-story home, with a wrap-around veranda dotted with rocking chairs and upstairs balconies pointed toward a lifetime of sunsets over the Carneros hills.

It was simple, lovely, perfect.

Kurt dropped his head back into the seat, heaving a sigh.Â 

He allowed himself one last moment of peace, because he had a feeling he was about to go to war.

****

They stopped first at the winery building, where a young man, clipboard in hand, directed them to the house. The owner was working in his office, he said.

Securely back in the rear seat, Kurt tried to focus in on the veranda as the car approached the house. On it, he could see a familiar figure in jeans and a chambray work shirt sitting in a patio chair, hunched over something. He took a solid breath, and exhaled deliberately, seeking calm.

Blaine might be working, but he chose to do it outside his office. He sat in one of the rockers, patio table pulled close, typing rapidly on a laptop computer. An unimpressed Australian Shepherd rested by his chair, its chin nestled on top of Blaine's booted foot.

Blaine looked up as the car approached slowly along the drive, his immediate recognition of his guest etched grimly on his face. He closed the computer and stood, waking the dog, who stretched and jogged away toward the lower vineyard.

Kurt watched it trot by as he climbed from the sedan and walked toward the house.

"Nice dog."

"She helps keep the crows out of the vines," Blaine said dispassionately, just missing eye contact.

"So she's an employee?" Kurt quipped in an attempt to break the ice, and failed. So instead he aimed for the heart of the matter. "I was expecting to hear from you."

"I was busy."

"I left messages."

"I know."

"You offered to help."

"I did." 

Kurt just stopped. The conversation, if it could be called that, had started out awkwardly. He worried that it was now at the precipice of hostile.

He weighed the odds of whether addressing the larger issue at hand would be met with silence or shouting. It wasn't that Blaine was overtly angry. He also wasn't welcoming. He just wasn't much of anything, showing no emotion at all.

"Blaine, I'm sorry if I upset you, but—"

"Stop," Blaine said sharply.

And Kurt did, dead in his tracks.

"I'm not angry."

Blaine still wouldn't meet Kurt's eye. He slowly shook his head and ran his hand through his unruly hair, his eyes straining to focus on anything but Kurt. He fidgeted, and fumbled with his words.

"You were right, Kurt. You're right. I shouldn't have... This is business. This is strictly business. You were right, and I shouldn't have assumed anything."

"That's not what I meant. Blaine, the dinner? That was a good night, and under any other circumstance... I want to get to know you. I do. It's just that while I'm working on this, there can't even be the appearance of a conflict of interest." He paused. "You know, normally I'd walk into a project like this telling people that I'm not here to make friends. Now, I'm trying to rationalize why I wouldn't."

Blaine nodded, and shrugged, and bit his lip.

"Like I said, business. I shouldn't have..." Unable to complete a sentence, and looking anxious to change course, Blaine worked his way out of the uncomfortable discourse.

"I was supposed to help you make more contacts in Sonoma," he said. "So I've sent out some emails to some of the other wineries. I've heard back from a couple of them."

Kurt wondered if this was what whiplash felt like. The person who had admittedly avoided him for the past several days was now sending out emails on his behalf?

"I don't know what to say. Thank you."

"Don't be too quick to thank me. I don't have wineries lined up for you like Napa did, but I've got a few to start."

"You could have told me."

Blaine finally looked him in the eye.

"No, I really couldn't."

****

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks as always to sillygleekt for her fine-tooth comb treatment and html skills, to buckeyegrrl for the gorgeous cover art and to iconicklaine for giving me direction when the trail isn't clear.
> 
> Also a quick note on the reference to the "CIA". In Napa, the CIA doesn't stand for Central Intelligence Agency, it's actually the Culinary Institute of America. It's located at a lovely facility in St. Helena known as "Greystone". http://www.ciachef.edu/california/


	9. Chapter 9

"We could work on it now, if you like."

They stood on the veranda, marking time, saying nothing, looking over the vineyards until Blaine dug deep, and found the voice that had largely escaped him since Kurt's arrival.  

"I've made a list, we can go through it, shoot off some email, make some calls... _If you like_."

Blaine knew he was confusing Kurt. He could see it on his face. But he was confounding himself, as well. He felt like he was on some sort of pendulum, swinging from one emotional extreme to another, all because of some wine critic who had moved into the region and inexplicably, into his life. 

Kurt remained silent, face pinched in concentration. 

"You came up here to get help in Sonoma, right? So why are you looking at me like you're not sure you want it? I said I'd help you, and I've started working on it," Blaine said. "You still want help? Here I am. _Use_ me."

"You _are_ upset," Kurt said. "I had to set the stage with that first column, Blaine. It may be a little... colorful... but it's not a lie. Nothing's inaccurate."

"You think I'm upset about your column?"

"Santana seems to think so."

"Kurt, I already told you, I'm not angry. I'm not enthusiastic, but I'm not angry. And I don't give a damn about that column. It's not like the rest of the world doesn't see us exactly the same way. But I do want to get on with this."

Blaine let his voice rise without even thinking about it, letting tension pepper his words. He shut up, bit his lip, took a breath, and regained control.

"C'mon. Let's take this inside. I've got some things pulled for you in the office."

"But the driver," Kurt said, flustered. "My ride..."

"Send him home. I'll drive you back."

Kurt stood on the edge of the veranda, momentarily silenced, and more than a little  dumbfounded.

"Why are you doing this, Blaine?"

"I already explained that. I've got an obligation to meet, whether or not I think it's in my best interest. I made a promise, and I intend to keep it. C'mon. Send the driver back and let's get this done."

Blaine didn't mean to make it sound like he was sending Kurt off for a root canal, but at times, this experience had certainly left him feeling that way, too.

He waited by the front door while Kurt sent the driver away, holding it open for him with an exaggerated bow, earning a sideways glance in return. It was quickly replaced with a look of wonder as Kurt walked over the threshold.

The foyer was an unexpected hybrid of rustic and modern, clean and bright, but with dark, masculine touches — richer in tone and texture than a country cottage but with a lighter and decidedly more subtle touch than a hunting lodge. Kurt absorbed his surroundings like a small town tourist seeing Times Square for the first time.

"Drink?"

"You're drinking?"

Blaine rolled his eyes, and smiled, finally breaking the ice.

"Arnold Palmers, Kurt. It's a little early to be hitting the bottle, don't you think?"

"Well, I _am_ a professional." Kurt checked himself, and added simply. "Yes, please." 

****

Blaine could see Kurt looking around while he poured lemonade, then tea, into iced glasses. The large gourmet kitchen, all stone and stainless, airy with windows overlooking hillside vineyards and natural cabinetry of knotted alder that stood in stark contrast to the dark reclaimed wood flooring.

His trust fund had served him well, and while his winery may be small, it had also been successful. Blaine didn't intend to be a Mondavi, but he had methodically built a business plan early on designed to keep him comfortable for years to come. Just because he had rejected a life of Manhattan apartments and summers in the Hamptons did not preclude him from carving out his own brand of success. He just intended to do it on his own terms. 

At the turn of 21, he'd claimed and invested his trust fund across a mix of stocks, bonds and real estate. Specifically, he'd bought 15 acres of hillside land in Sonoma County, about an hour from the UC Davis campus where he would spend the next two years studying for his Master's Degree.

That time was concentrated in classrooms, labs and vineyards, but he spent his weekends planning, then planting, the first of his Syrah vines. By the time he turned 24 and completed his education, he had a small but mature vineyard of his own, and a trailer to live in while he worked with a friend designing a home where he intended to live out his life.

He knew exactly what he wanted — certainly not the mansions he grew up with, nor the faux-this and re-imagined-that he'd seen in so many wine country estates. He wanted a classic home, large enough to raise children in should that ever be a consideration, and classic, with modern flourishes. Most importantly, he wanted something that would fit into the landscape, that when you stood in a room, you were still surrounded by the beauty of the rolling Sonoma hills.

The resulting 3,600-square-foot farmhouse may have been larger than he had first planned, but it incorporated an office for winery management; a large kitchen for entertaining, if the whim ever hit him; and an attached guest apartment for those rare occasions when his brother dropped by — and stayed. He had learned his lesson about letting his loud, night owl brother stay in a neighboring bedroom when he had to be up daily at 5 am or earlier during harvest.

Blaine carried their glasses into the office, but it was really more of a family room with corner space dedicated to a desk, monitor and cabinetry. The decor had the look of a music studio, with two guitars resting against stands and an upright piano in the corner. Winery touches also dotted the space, with polished barrel plank shelves and lighting constructed from sections of small, outcast wine barrels.

He set their drinks at a large wooden coffee table and grabbed a file from his desk.

"This is every professional vintner in Sonoma," Blaine said, handing Kurt the folder. "Santana may have given you a copy. I've gone through and divided them into three categories. Small is 5,000 cases or less. These are the wineries you'd consider 'boutique'. Rhapsody's one of them. The medium-sized wineries produce up to 15,000 cases a year. The ones that aren't highlighted are the big guys, and they sell anywhere from 15-to-50,000 cases. The ones that I think you ought to talk to I've highlighted. Small is yellow, medium pink. If there's an 'X' by the name, I've reached out to them already for you."

Kurt looked at the pages. They were rainbows of pink and yellow dotted by flurries of Xs. 

"Will that work for you?" Blaine asked, without a drop of insincerity.

They spent the next hour scouring the list, one-by-one, Blaine detailing the vintages and character of each winery. He knew his neighbors well.

Kurt took notes while Blaine dialed, schmoozing and cajoling in ways he knew would surprise Kurt. He soon had a short list of vintners who would be willing to meet them on the square later that day, wine in hand.

Blaine made one last call before suggesting they get moving. 

"Patty, is there any chance that back room is available this evening? We need a little space for a tasting."

He grinned and winked at Kurt. Sonoma was on board.

****

Settled into the back room at The Girl and The Fig, Blaine set up a tasting that had none of the formality of the rounds in Bardessono's opulent conference center. Winemakers arrived without entourage, lugging a case of Pinot, or Syrah, or Viognier, or whatever blend they had come up with. They all settled into the small private dining room, a smug-looking bartender greeting them all, most with hugs, then taking the bottles off their hands.

And they never left. 

The winemakers, who all clearly knew each other well, hung out, drank a lot, and spent considerable time heckling each other.

"They do talk some good smack," Blaine whispered to Kurt after the owner of Rosedale Wines landed a series of one-liners at the expense of his counterpart at Addams Family Winery, most variations on an "Uncle Fester" theme, before buying him a peace offering of whiskey.

By 8 pm, the room had cleared, and Kurt had sampled nearly 20 wines, interviewed half as many winemakers and had appointments with another 15 vintners. All of this was largely due to the efforts of Blaine, who spent much of the evening on the phone, or on Kurt's iPad logged on to his Rhapsody email, cultivating a list of prospective contestants for Kurt. 

Blaine would look up from his papers and email from time to time, watching Kurt employ the same studied motions he had exercised with the bottle of _Sotto Voce._ Each move was precise, deliberate, practiced and performed with purpose. Blaine still couldn't say honestly that he was yet to be won over by this _Taste_ magazine falderal, but he found himself drawn to the sight of Kurt's fluid movements.

He hadn't given Kurt much credit when they'd met. Blaine realized that was he was watching a professional easily as well trained in his craft as he was. Kurt might not understand organic chemistry, but his knowledge of the markers of quality wine was undeniable, and his process almost poetic.

Kurt sniffed and swirled and absorbed the essence of each wine, followed by rapid-fire questioning and detailed note-taking. Blaine couldn't take his eyes off of him.

"And... done!" Kurt said, slapping his notebook shut and snapping Blaine out of his reverie. "For now, at least. And I'm starved."

"Dinner?"

"That was the idea, Blaine. How's the food here?"

"It's good. It's good," Blaine said, nearly squeaking his response. "Patty can get us a table out front..."

"Can we just eat back here, where it's quiet?"

Blaine blinked, trying to keep his thoughts in check. "Yeah, of course. I'll grab a couple of menus and let them know."

They lingered over the dinner, Arctic char for Kurt, flatiron steak for Blaine. 

"You know what that will do to your arteries, right?" Kurt scoffed. 

"I work it off, every day," Blaine said, contentedly slicing into the meat. "And I like steak."

"You know, we have all those barely-touched bottles," Kurt said, nodding toward the abandoned tasting table. "What _should_ we do with them?"

"This, from the guy who doesn't swallow when he tastes?"

Blaine noticed a decidedly wicked twinkle in Kurt's eyes.

"You're not going to let that go, are you? I'm just saying, it's sad to see such lovely things go to waste."

"Maybe we can donate them to charity."

"Bottles of wine are not used televisions, Blaine."

"Maybe Patty could use them behind the bar."

"I don't see these vintages on the menu."

"And what would you suggest, Mr. Hummel?"

"You do have a wine cellar?"

"Of course. But those bottles are _unopened_." 

"It would be a shame to pour them out. Such a waste."

"Somebody really should drink them."

"Is there a corkage fee here?"

"They're already open."

With a knowing grin, Kurt rose and sauntered toward the table, perusing the selection, and grabbing a bottle and two clean glasses.

"The identity of this bottle is to remain top secret."

Blaine felt borderline giggly. "Yes, sir," He said.

And they slipped into it again, that same ease they had felt eating burgers at Mustards, and sipping Rhapsody's finest at Bardessono. It was more lighthearted this time. They talked about their childhood crushes, their favorite music and absolutely the best movies, ever. They talked about everything and nothing, prodding with little jokes and listening with deft ears.

Blaine couldn't help but stare. He sensed Kurt was doing the same.

He also knew that if he drank much more he wouldn't get Kurt back safely to Yountville.

"It's getting late," he said.

"This has to end?"

Was it an invitation? A suggestion? Blaine would only know if he took a calculated risk.

"You can always stay out here tonight."

Kurt's eyebrows shot up.

"I have a guest room. And we have... all these orphans to care for," he said, gesturing to the open bottles.

"It _would_ be a pity to leave them all alone," Kurt conceded.

****

Blaine carefully nosed the truck through the winding roads of Glen Ellen back toward Rhapsody, with Kurt in the passenger seat and two cases of some of Sonoma's best partially-consumed wine in the back. 

He would glance over from time to time and see Kurt leaning back in the seat, looking skyward.

"What are you thinking?"

"Well first, that this topless truck of yours is going to be hell on my hair," Kurt said. 

Blaine bit back a laugh. "Volume, Kurt. It adds volume. What else?"

"And the stars," Kurt said. "I just noticed them. I mean _really_ noticed them, for the first time. You don't see them in the city."

Blaine allowed himself to briefly take in the sky, as he had done so many times from the rocking chair on his veranda. Overhead, a crystalline tableaux, punctuated by a shooting star.

"Look," Blaine said. "Did you see it?"

"A shooting star!"

"Did you make a wish?"

Kurt paused, closed his eyes momentarily and sighed.

"Yeah, but I'm not going to hold my breath waiting for it to come true."

Blaine soon pulled to stop in front of his home, and looked back to the cardboard cases in the truck bed.

"Are we going to want these?"

"Oh, _yes_ ," Kurt replied. "Yes we will."

Blaine grabbed a case and headed toward the house. "C'mon. We'll get you situated, then we can take these in the study."

He gave Kurt the short tour of the house, grabbing extra towels and a new toothbrush from the linen closet, pointing out the rooms: den over there, wine cellar down there, a couple of extra bedrooms that were never used.

At the end of a long hallway, they arrived at what looked like a secondary foyer, smaller than the one at the front of the house, with two doors: one to the outdoors, one to a small apartment that had been built into the far side of the house. 

Blaine opened the door and turned on the light to reveal a room that looked a bit like a hotel suite, with a small living area, kitchenette, and a master bedroom and bath suite.

Kurt whistled. " _Fancy_ , Mr. Anderson."

"Necessity, Mr. Hummel. I have a brother. He visits. He's, um, lively. I learned my lesson when he stayed with me for two weeks before the house was built — and added it to the design immediately. It's saved me countless hours of sleep. Plus it makes a nice guest room. Anyhow, there you go: bedroom and bath over there. There's tea and coffee in the kitchen. Um, I should have a T-shirt and sweatpants you can change in to, if you'd like."

Kurt set his things down on a small sofa in the living area, taking off his jacket, folding and setting it carefully on the back of a chair.

"So this is your brother's nicely-appointed dungeon, eh? And are you locking me away for the night?"

"There may be a few people out there who think wine critics are better off locked up," Blaine said, smirking. His voice turned serious. "I'm not one of them, not any more."

"Well, I guess that's progress. And good thing, because I really wanted some more of that 2009 Rosedale Pinot."

****

It didn't take long for Blaine to find the right bottle, grab two glasses and carry it all into the den, settling into a weathered leather couch and pouring two glasses of the plummy vintage. Kurt followed, joining him on the sofa.

"So, did it help? Today?" Blaine asked, handing him a glass.

"It was great," Kurt said, shaking his head. "I didn't expect... _that_. I didn't expect so much."

"You expected me to be angry."

"Yes."

"About your column."

"Yes."

"You thought I wouldn't help you because of your column?"

"Um, yes," Kurt said. "I'm sorry, Blaine. I underestimated you. I jumped to conclusions. But when you didn't respond..."

"You weren't entirely wrong."

With that, he had Kurt's full attention.

"The last couple of weeks, the time we've spent together... It felt like... maybe... but then," Blaine didn't normally stutter, but Kurt just seemed to have that effect on him. He took a breath, centered himself, and forced himself to continue. "But then a handshake, and a speech about ethics, and that column. Maybe I misinterpreted. Maybe I'm out of practice. If you're gay and single you don't exactly move here to meet people, and maybe I'm not very good at it when I do... meet someone." He paused. "I just needed to step away for a few days, Kurt. I just wanted to stay up here and focus on work."

Kurt looked like someone had knocked the wind out of him. He leaned back into the couch, looked at nothing in particular on the ceiling, and let out a deep exhale.

"Do you know what it's like, this job?" he said. "I have to get close enough to people in this industry to legitimately be considered an insider, but I have to be distant enough to be a critic of it, too. Friendships? Complicated. And relationships? Impossible. This job makes it impossible, at least with someone else in the wine industry, and most of the people I meet are _in the wine industry_. 

"So what do I do when I meet someone through work that I really feel a connection with? Someone like _you_? I ignore it. Because if I acted on it, and people found out, it could be over for me. It's seen as a conflict, and it compromises my reputation as unbiased. That, or I'd have to keep it a secret, and that's a little too close to being back in the closet for me. 

Blaine's mind hit the brakes right around "someone like you," and and he blinked and nodded, trying to get his head to catch up with Kurt's words.

"I don't know what to say."

Tension furrowed his brow. Blaine couldn't talk, couldn't move, couldn't function. All he could do was focus on Kurt, and follow his instincts.

He leaned in slowly, closed his eyes and brushed the lightest of kisses to Kurt's lips. He lingered for a moment, hovering close, waiting, uncertain.

Then he opened his eyes, and pulled back.

"I'm sorry. I shouldn't have..."

"No. Don't apologize, Blaine. I can't. But it's not that I don't want to."

Blaine bit his lip and looked Kurt square in the ear. He couldn't meet his eyes.

"What do we do?" he said, his voice weak.

Kurt took Blaine's hand, and bit back the sniffle building in his breath.

"I don't know how this happened. I've only known you a couple of weeks. But you're important to me. I don't want to lose that."

"But..." Blaine said, anticipating what was to come.

"But I can't. I can't do this," Kurt said, waving his hand as if building an unseen bridge between them. 

Blaine nodded. He already knew.

"I understand."

"Blaine, your friendship means a lot to me."

"But you can't..."

"I can't be more than friends with you. But I also can't _not be friends_ with you. I can't ignore this. I may not always be able to show it, but it doesn't mean it isn't there," Kurt said, doing his best to will his face into a smile.

"Even though it's complicated?"

Kurt gave Blaine's hand a squeeze, and set his glass on the coffee table.

"It's late, and I should really get some sleep."

****

 


	10. Chapter 10

Kurt heard the buzz of an incoming text promptly at 6:38 am. He grabbed blindly at the bedside table until his fingers gripped the edge of his vibrating smartphone. He squinted until his eyes pulled into focus.

_Oh, what the actual hell, Quinn?_

6:38a Quinn:  We need to talk about your columns this morning.

6:42a Kurt: _Do you know what time it is_  

6:43a  Quinn: You owe me some column inches. 

6:45a  Kurt: _Am I allowed to slip into consciousness first?_

6:46a  Quinn: Expect a call in 15 minutes.

 

 _You have got to be kidding me,_ Kurt thought.

The only thing that pulled Kurt out of the feather bed was the distant aroma of brewing coffee. He rolled his body up slowly, huffed a breath, then swore under it, and dragged himself out of bed.

He followed his senses, or at least his nose, to the main house, where Blaine had brewed a pot of dark Kona. He stood at the kitchen counter, already dressed in Levis and a T-shirt, chopping vegetables.

"Hey, sleepy," he said, collecting chopped tomatoes into a pile. "Omelet?"

" _How_ are you even awake?" Kurt croaked.

"Hydration, Kurt. And I'm an early riser. Force of habit. 

Kurt, rumpled in the t-shirt and sweatpants Blaine had loaned him and eyes only half-open, looked incredulous.

"Vineyard, Kurt," Blaine said, gesturing out the window. "If you run a vineyard, you're going to be in for some early mornings."

"Writer," Kurt said, managing to point a finger at his chest. "Not farmer."

Blaine smirked to himself and opened an overhead cabinet, pulling out a coffee mug. "Coffee, then?"

"Oh god yes."

Moments later, his phone jumped to life again, a photograph of a classic beauty — blonde-haired, green-eyed and female — flashing on its screen, the ringtone blaring [_The Bitch is Back_](https://soundcloud.com/gollumnz/elton-john-the-bitch-is-back). Blaine gave it, then Kurt, an inquisitive look.

"The boss," Kurt said, grabbing the phone, then the coffee, and ducking out of the room.

"You're not at your hotel," Quinn said, the inference a little too obvious for Kurt.

"Late night in Sonoma," Kurt said. "I stayed in someone's guest house."

"Well, nice to know you're making progress on something. Tell me about your columns."

Kurt, annoyed but gradually waking up, detailed his work on the Challenge — that he had narrowed the Napa contenders to finalists, but that Sonoma had taken more time than expected. Thanks to some local help, he was finally on his way and had several tastings scheduled in the area, he said.

"And the columns? I've only got one, Kurt, and it's already published."

"You have my outline."

"But I don't have your words. So I'm going to help you out."

 _Oh, holy hell_ , Kurt thought. _Here we go_.

Quinn, who had reviewed, edited and flat-out rejected parts of Kurt's outline for the _Year in the Wine Country_ series, detailed her thoughts for additional columns and articles for the series: the influence of California in the global wine market; revisiting the original Paris tasting winners, Chateau Montelena and Stag's Leap, in the lead-up to the _Taste_ Challenge; and profiles of up-and-coming winemakers in both Napa and Sonoma.

"I like Smythe and this Anderson guy for that one. That's a natural. Same college, both young. Both making names for themselves, but in such different ways. That one's a priority, Kurt."

He cringed.

"So much so, that I had a little conversation with the good folks at Dalton the other day, and we've arranged for you to spend some quality time getting to know their new chief winemaker. Today."

"You did _what_? Quinn, I have mee—"

"Not now, you don't. You have a one o'clock appointment over at Dalton. I couldn't reach  Anderson, but I expect a mirror column on him and his little Sonoma operation. Your deadline is in 10 days. And I'm being generous with that."

"Fine."

"And Kurt?"

"Yes?"

"I'll see you soon."

Kurt shut the phone down as he walked back into the kitchen. Blaine was busy at the cooktop, sautéing peppers, onions and mushrooms, some herbed chèvre and whisked eggs set off to one side. He had a look of ease and comfort in his surroundings that often seemed to elude him. 

"Winemaker _and_ master chef?"

"Well, winemaker and former short-order cook," Blaine said, garnering a raised eyebrow in response. "I can manage a pretty good omelet. So, what do you like? Veggies? Cheese? I have some Prosciutto I can toss in there, if you like."

"I like," Kurt said. "Whatever you're having is fine. Smells delicious. That must have been one fancy diner."

"The ingredients change, but the method remains the same," Blaine responded.

Kurt poured himself another cup of coffee, and leaned into the kitchen counter, watching Blaine pour the egg mixture into two heated frying pans.

"Wine emergency?" Blaine said, smiling to himself.

"More like an editor who is determined to act like a scheduling assistant," Kurt said. "I'm afraid I have a change in plans this afternoon. Someone took it upon herself to make an appointment for me over on the other side."

Blaine bit his lip and concentrated on the cooktop. "You had a couple of meetings set up over here today..."

"I tried to tell her. I'm going to have to reschedule. Sorry."

Blaine added the last of the ingredients into both omelets, folded the eggs together like two envelopes, slid them on to waiting plates, then topped both with fresh avocado slices. He went to the refrigerator, took some sliced cantaloupe and set it on the plates, carrying both to the breakfast nook.

"Oh my god, that looks delicious," Kurt said.

"Special occasion. I usually just grab a bagel. But it's kind of nice to cook for a change." He took a measured beat, never taking his eyes off of Kurt. "What time do you need to be back in Napa?"

"I've got a one o'clock."

"I thought you were done over there."

"I'm done with the tastings, but Quinn wants to see more progress on the series. And since she didn't have all the columns she wanted long before any deadline, she took it upon herself to not only to assign one, but to schedule an interview for it, too."

"Advertiser, eh?"

"Mmmm. Worse. A _prospective_ advertiser, and a big name at that — Dalton. She wants me to profile their new head winemaker. I think you know him — Sebastian Smythe?"

Blaine blanched, then pushed the food around his plate with his fork.

"How's the omelet?" he asked without glancing up.

Kurt looked at his near-empty plate, looked back up at Blaine and gave him a _You do see that I have decimated this breakfast, right?_ look. 

"Would you like to see the grounds? Do you have time?" Blaine asked, changing gears again. "I need to go up to the upper vineyard and help with a little first-year pruning. I thought maybe it would be a good chance for you to see the property, and how we work around here."

"I'd love it."

"I can loan you some boots, maybe a shirt if you'd like. Trust me, Brooks Brothers wingtips and the vineyard don't mix."

"How did you know—"

"Just because you've only seen me in work clothes doesn't mean I don't know how to dress, Kurt. I have the same pair in black — and I don't let them get anywhere near the vineyard. I've got some spare boots in the barn. What are you, an 11?"

"Twelve," Kurt said, responding a bit too quickly.

Blaine bit back a grin.

"I've got a pair of slop boots that'll fit you. But if you're going to be spending quality time around vines this year, you might want to consider investing in a good pair of work shoes. If you're going to play winemaker, you might as well dress the part."

****

They walked the property, Blaine in his work clothes, Kurt in his closest approximation of them. Blaine loaned him a clean shirt, then another when he discovered that Kurt's chest was bigger than his own.

They stopped first at the winery where Kurt had first sampled Rhapsody wines. The barn-like structure was charming in a rough sort of way, simple from the outside but spotlessly housing 500-gallon stainless fermentation vessels and winemaking equipment within. Deeper into the building, a "cool room" was shut off from the rest of the structure, housing test wines in various stages of fermentation. 

"Don't go in there for too long," Blaine warned at the door of the cool room. "It's a bit much."

"I know the smell's strong, but I can take it," Kurt responded.

 "No, Kurt, you can't. There's CO2 buildup in there, and it needs time to vent off. Seriously, it can kill you. A short stop just to look, OK?"

Kurt did as he was instructed, poked his head in the door to see several large, white  plastic paint buckets partially filled with red grape must. The smell in the air was harshly acrid, with a hint of grape and a sledgehammer of alcohol.

He pulled back rapidly. "Isn't it a little late in the year for fermentation?"

"For regular seasonal wines, yes. I'm playing with a late season harvest and high alcohol concentrations — dessert wine, basically. One section of the vineyard didn't mature at the same rate as the rest, so I let it sit on the vine for a while. This lot didn't get harvested until late December."

The batch may just as likely be destined to be poured down a sink as to be bottled, Blaine explained, but he didn't want the grapes to go to waste, so he thought he'd experiment with the harvest anomaly.

He locked up the barn behind them, and turned back to the trail, where the dog Kurt had seen the day before sat, as if waiting for their arrival. It trotted comfortably at Blaine's side.

"Constant companion?"

"Something like that, yep. She's a working dog, but she likes people, too."

The dog knew where to go, it seemed, and led them a short distance down the path, to what looked like a small lake hidden amid rows of Syrah.

"It's beautiful," Kurt said. "Is this by design?"

"It's really a reservoir, backup water for the dry months," Blaine said. "We're not too dependent on it. Half the time it's just a swimming hole. It's a nice place to cool off on a hot day."

"So, not your drinking water..."

"We're a little more advanced than that around here, Kurt. It's a backup irrigation supply. Once the vines are growing, they really don't require much water. You want to starve them out a bit, actually. Make them work for it. A lazy grape makes for bad wine. But if we have a heat wave or a drought? Then it's here, just in case."

"And it doubles as a swimming pool?"

"Not officially, but... It's just a nice place to take break sometimes, a good lunch spot, and when it's hot and you've been working in the vines all day... Let's just say people have been known to sneak a quick dip."

"Are you saying what I think you're saying?"

"Hmm?"

"That you..."

"I'm not exactly working the fields in swimwear, Kurt."

And with that, Blaine turned and continued up the trail toward the upper reaches of the vineyard, leaving Kurt and his dropped jaw in the dust.

"So, how much acreage do you have here?" Kurt asked, catching up.

"I bought 15, and planted the last of it a year ago. That's what the guys are preparing to prune today."

"And that's it?"

"I have the option on another 10 adjoining the west end of the property, and first rights at it if someone else wants to make an offer."

"And you haven't bought it?"

"Not everyone is trying to build a conglomerate."

"Twenty-five acres hardly turns you into a multi-national. Rhapsody would still be considered 'small', right?"

"True. I'm just not sure. And reinvestment has been going toward equipment, not land."

"You should think about it, Blaine."

"I do."

"It really is beautiful up here," Kurt said. "But do you ever feel a little... isolated?"

"Nature of the business. You can't grow grapes without acres to plant them on."

"That's not exactly what I meant. You have this lovely, big, empty house on this big—"

"Not that big—"

"—big enough, Blaine. It feels so isolated out here. You can't even see your neighbors from here, and no family. It can't be easy to be single and living like this."

"I like my life, Kurt."

As they approached the upper reaches of the vineyard, they heard voices and the increasing volume of a Spanish-language radio station playing music that sounded to Kurt strangely like an oompah band.

"We found 'em!" Blaine said, grinning.

"Is that a _tuba_?"

"It's _Banda_ , Kurt. If I'm not mistaken, that's the soulful sound of Jorge Luis Cabrera singing [_Musica Romantica_](http://open.spotify.com/track/3cMU9Ga9pc3EED0HMbEiPM), accompanied by the vineyard crew."

"...and a tuba."

"No tuba, no Banda."

Blaine grinned and walked ahead, happily slapping the shoulder of the crew chief, the same man Kurt had met at the barn the day before. Blaine clearly knew the crew well, and they were laughing and speaking Spanish in what sounded to Kurt like teasing one-upmanship, though he really had no way of knowing.

"¿Oye jefe, nos vas a dar una serenata hoy?" _("You going to serenade us today, chief?"),_ called out a crew member, the one who appeared to be leading the sing-a-long.

"No, hoy no. Además, ustedes saben que prefiero la música tejana." _("Not today, not today. You know I prefer Tejano music anyway.")_

The crew appeared to good-naturedly mock Blaine's response.

"Ay, no mames con tu pinche música tejana!" _("Oh, get out of our vines with your lousy Tejano.")_ the singer responded, laughing.

Blaine nodded and laughed, before pulling the crew chief aside for a moment and pointing out a couple of young, rangy-looking vines. Kurt could tell by the small size of the stock that these were the one-year vines Blaine had mentioned. The leaves had long since died back, but the remaining long, stringy vines looked completely unkept, unlike the rest of the neatly-pruned vineyard.

Pruning shears in hand, Blaine knelt at one of the young trellised vines, pulling the length out, thumbing at sections of it. He took the long tendril, and snapped it off with the clippers — then another, and another, tossing the remains off to the side. 

Then he stood up and stepped back, hands on hips, inspecting his work and pointing something out.

After a few minutes, Blaine approached Kurt with the crew chief, a young Latino, younger than Blaine, with a serious demeanor.

"Kurt, I'd like you to meet Diego, my vineyard manager. Diego grew up with the vines, and knows them better than just about anyone I know — with the possible exception of his father."

"My father would definitely agree with you on that last part," Diego said, extending a hand. "We met already. You're the guy from the magazine?"

Kurt nodded as he shook Diego's hand. "Guilty as charged."

"For the record, we're gonna kick their ass."

"Duly noted."

The statement earned rounds affirmative shouts from the small crew, who went on laughing, pruning and singing along to the strains of the Banda station playing on the radio. Blaine excused himself, spun the shears on his fingers and joined them.

"Is that normal?" Kurt asked, standing and watching with Diego.

"What?"

"The owner of the winery going out and pruning the vines with the grounds crew?"

Diego laughed. "I dare you to find anyone named Beringer doing it — unless there's a camera along. Blaine likes to be involved. He works the vines as much as I do."

Somehow, Kurt wasn't surprised. Blaine looked like he belonged out there, laughing and singing with the workers, speaking Spanish like he'd spent a lifetime doing it, looking... happy, energized... at home. It wasn't anywhere close to the first impression he'd had of him, but he had a feeling it was considerably more accurate.

 _No wonder he sequesters himself away up here_ , Kurt thought, surveying the blue sky, and rolling valley of vineyard and oak below.

"So, what exactly is happening up here today? I realize you're pruning the young vines, but how is that any different than the rest of the vineyard?"

"They're first year vines. They have a year's worth of growth on them. They're allowed to grow without a cut that first year. Then it's like a first haircut. What you do with it today shapes what they become, how they look, for years to come," Diego said. "You only get one chance to get it right."

Kurt nodded, and gave Diego a half-hearted smile. "Thanks."

"Hey Kurt! You want to learn how to do this?" Blaine called up from the vines. "Maybe I'll hire you if this whole writing thing doesn't work out for you."

Kurt picked up a pair of pruning shears.

"It's nice to know I have career options."

****

About two hours later, they were on the road, headed back to Yountville, to Bardessono, and to Kurt's reorganized schedule 

"So, you never did answer my question earlier," Kurt said.

"What's that?" Blaine responded, playing with the radio dial.

"What do you know about this Sebastian Smythe character?"

Blaine pulled up to a red light, looked over to Kurt, then stared straight ahead.

"What do you want to know?"

"You both went to Cornell. He said you two met in college."

"A couple of labs."

"Quinn wants me to feature him and Dalton."

"Mmm."

"She also wants me to write about you and Rhapsody."

He looked over at Kurt again, but said nothing.

"It makes sense, when you think about it," Kurt said, hoping to draw him out. "You're about the same age, went to the same school, knew each other before coming to California..."

"And?"

"And you represent two different sides of the coin, probable opponents in the Challenge."

"Anything else?"

"They're supposed to be profiles, Blaine. It's about getting to know the winemaker, what makes you tick."

"Ah. She wants you to go _there_."

"She _demands_ that I go there. Blaine, they're profiles. These aren't just stories about the wine. They're features about who you are and what makes you special, and different in this industry. You two have parallel stories that end up in different places."

Blaine huffed to himself. Kurt was fairly certain he heard a mumbled _What makes me special_.

"She was apparently talking to the Dalton people yesterday, and now I've got an interview with Smythe this afternoon."

"You can't do that for yourself?"

"She was in a hurry."

There was no doubt in Kurt's mind. Blaine was anxious or annoyed, perhaps even a little pissed off. The lighthearted banter was long gone, and had been replaced with the moodiness Blaine had displayed when Kurt first met him.

"What's wrong, Blaine? Is it this profile? Or last night? I thought we were OK. Can we talk about this, whatever it is?"

Blaine looked up, literally side-eyeing Kurt, and refocused on the road. 

"Is it Smythe? Is that what has you upset? 

"Not upset."

"What's wrong?"

"I just don't like him very much, that's all."

"You don't want me to write about him? Is that it?"

Blaine snapped. "I don't care _what_ you do with him, Kurt."

Kurt recoiled, grabbed the arm rest and hunched down into the truck's bench seat. He wanted to choose his words carefully.

"Blaine, I don't understand what's going on here, but I have to tell you that I'm having a hard time holding on to this roller coaster. We have a great day followed by silence. We have a — a moment — and the next thing I know, I suddenly feel like I'm the enemy. I don't understand. I want to be your friend, Blaine, but you're making it pretty difficult. You can't just shut people out like that."

"I can do anything I damn well please."

"Something's clearly set you off, and it started the moment I mentioned Smythe. That day I met him during the tastings at Bardessono, he was pretty obnoxious."

Blaine huffed indignantly.

"He said you two knew each other."

Blaine rolled his eyes.

"He, um, hinted that maybe you knew each other... well."

Blaine stared straight ahead, gripping the steering wheel tightly.

"Sometimes, I think I need to remind myself that I'm talking to a reporter. This is probably a good time for that."

"I'm not here as a reporter, Blaine."

"I thought we were talking about your column."

"I can be discreet."

"That's not what reporters are paid to do."

They drove in silence. Kurt didn't bring it up again. He didn't want to think that what Smythe had inferred was true, but Blaine didn't deny it, either. Maybe he just hated the guy. That was easy enough to imagine. He couldn't imagine two more different or less complimentary personalities. 

And he certainly couldn't picture Blaine with the smarmy, arrogant winemaker from Dalton.

****

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks as always to the meticulous sillygleekt, who forces me to consider good habits; the visionary klaineaddict/iconicklaine, who sees the bigger picture; and the artistic buckeyegrrl, whose art was a vast improvement over my lollipop trees and stick figures.
> 
> I also have a Sotto Voce glossary posted over on my S&C pages. I will try to post it over here as well in the coming days.


	11. Chapter 11

Kurt rushed through his usual deliberate routine of shower, shave, moisturize and style. If he was going to make a one o'clock appointment, he needed to hustle. A conscious decision was made to sacrifice hairstyling nuance to the realities of scheduling. 

For once in his life, he really didn't care.

In the back of the Town Car heading north to St. Helena, he considered the wineries he had visited around the world, their differences, their sameness: the regal vineyard estates of Bordeaux and their famous labels, the ultra-modern waterfront villa of Argentina that produced rich Malbec, the slightly scruffy mountainside retreat on the south island of New Zealand, where a Wheaten terrier greeted everyone at the door and the owner served up Sauvignon Blanc that tasted like sweetened grapefruit.

He had learned that it didn't really matter if a winery was styled to resemble Roman ruins or an Alsatian castle, their purpose was the same: to provide a cool and clean environment in which to make wine. Really, it could be done in an industrial park. 

Or a barn.

_This is nothing different_ , he told himself, yet he wanted to tell the driver to turn the car around.

_This is nothing out of the ordinary,_  he thought _,_ yet he wanted nothing to do with it.

_I've done this story dozens of times, with dozens of winemakers,_ he knew, yet he wanted nothing more than to ship it out to a freelancer.

_A major, established and perhaps a bit staid — no, stale — winery decides to reboot, hiring a brash and dynamic young vintner to change its image._

_This is normal,_ yet he realized it felt nothing of the sort.

_This is my job_. And Quinn had unsubtly reminded him of who signed his paycheck. 

"This is your signature project, Kurt, and our's too. Don't blow it," she had said when he protested about timing, and subject matter and anything else he could think of to stall, just for a little while longer.

He looked out the window and could see the Dalton estate in the distance.

Steeped in European elegance and tradition, it resembled something between a country manor and a prep school. Ivy crept persistently up its stone walls, but was neatly held at bay around the main winery's signature architectural element: the arched, oversized windows and balcony over its front doors.

It was one of Napa's most popular sites for weddings, and engaged couples were urged to plan at least a year in advance if they expected to hold their nuptials in the ornate Dalton gardens.

It was also a tourist attraction, and the owners had gradually added and expanded to accommodate guests' penchants for picnic areas, gift shops, rustic tasting rooms, and even delis and an on-site cheesemonger. Visitors could prepare for their trips online by pre-ordering picnic baskets, or ordering cases of wine, or purchasing Dalton signature logo wear and golf accessories.

The vineyards surrounding the main winery building were neat and methodical, meticulously trimmed to exacting standards that scarcely varied from vine to vine. Leading up the front gate, a garden of signature Dalton roses — a deep, ruby red — were maintained to the same exacting standards as the vines.

The driver dropped Kurt off at the main entrance where Dalton's PR consultant, decked out — somewhat garishly, Kurt thought — in a too-short skirt and knee-high boots, waited with a press kit and a picnic basket.

"Mr. Hummel! I'm Rachel Berry, Dalton's public relations representative? So glad you could make it! Mr. Smythe is waiting. We thought maybe you'd like to talk over lunch?"

_How long has she been waiting out here?_ Kurt thought, knowing he was running late and not expecting or particularly wanting a reception.

"If he's busy, I'm more than happy to speak with him while he works, or some other time," Kurt said, hoping for an out.

"We're a little busy getting ready for bottling, but the winery crew has that under control. We're fine. He's expecting you, and we've blocked his afternoon out so you two can talk."

_Great_.

****

Sebastian Smythe sauntered into the winery lobby, casually ignoring tourists as he made a beeline to Kurt. In trim khakis and a crisply pressed oxford shirt with sleeves rolled to his forearms, he looked more weekend CEO than working vintner.

"We meet again," he said, reaching out to shake hands with Kurt. 

"Hello, Mr. Smythe."

"Please, it's Sebastian."

Rachel, bouncing on her toes, was anxious to get the show on the road. 

"How about we enjoy this picnic out in the sunshine?" she said with just a bit more pep than Sebastian could seem to tolerate.

"How about you get back to work so Kurt and I can get down to business? And leave the basket. I'm famished."

Stunned into silence, Rachel handed the basket to Sebastian, the press kit to Kurt, and rushed from the room.

"That's more like it," Sebastian said, smiling broadly. "Come with me."

He led Kurt through the tasting room, where he ducked behind the bar to grab a 2008 Meritage, a 2010 reserve Chardonnay and four glasses which he tucked into the basket. He peeked out the windows toward the picnic area and shook his head. 

"Absolutely not. It may be a nice day, but those tables are loaded with tourists. We can walk the grounds, but I doubt there's anything that's much of a surprise to you. Why don't we make that girl's day and let her give you the tour after we've had a chance to get to know each other?"

Kurt mentally recoiled. Smythe made him feel like he was visiting a dating service rather than interviewing a winemaker. 

"Why don't we take this upstairs and chat? We can eat on the balcony and enjoy a little privacy."

Kurt really didn't like this guy.

Oh, he was attractive, without a doubt — at least until he opened his mouth.

Tall, lanky and naturally windswept, Sebastian Smythe looked like a prep school dream. His look was refined, with a Hyannisport style that would only be confused with casual in a board room. He was also confident to the point of arrogance, Kurt thought. He carried himself like the Big Man on Campus, the four-sport athlete who also happened to compete in the academic decathlon and was named prom king more than once. He had spent years playing Lacrosse, Kurt would learn that afternoon as Sebastian drawled on about himself. 

According to Dalton's bio of its new chief vintner, his educational pedigree was comparable to Blaine's, having completed his education at Cornell before moving west.

But that's all Kurt could or wanted to imagine they had in common.

Kurt followed up a private staircase to an office overlooking the front of the property. The arched, oversized windows were the same ones he'd seen as his driver pulled up to the property. The room was appointed in what Kurt would come to define as rural executive chic: dark mahogany bookcases and desk, and oxblood leather seating, including an oversized sofa and side chairs.

"Technically, this isn't my office, but I work up here a lot," he said, eyeing Kurt. "And play." He reached for the patio door. "It's also a great place to eat in peace."

He set the wine down on a small table, and began pulling meats and cheeses from the basket. Kurt pulled up a chair and set his satchel and the press kit down.

"What would you like to drink?" Sebastian asked. "Red? White? How about a little bit of both?"

"I'll start with the Chardonnay," Kurt said.

"A man of my own heart. Never limit yourself to one option. Start with one, yes, but never commit," he said, handling the sommelier's corkscrew as easily as he would put on a wristwatch.

Kurt felt the sudden need to exfoliate.

"So, my editor would like to see a feature on the Dalton brand and the new direction that you're taking it in," he said, thinking that keeping the conversation focused on Sebastian would keep him at least focused on the interview.

He was wrong.

" _Just_  your editor?" Sebastian asked. "Don't tell me you didn't want to see me again."

"I was given an assignment."

"I should thank your boss," he said, pouring Kurt a generous glass of Chardonnay.

Kurt pulled a recorder and a notebook from his satchel, and did his best to ignore Sebastian's asides.

"So, tell me how you got into winemaking."

"It's all in the press kit," Sebastian said, raising his glass. "Cheers." 

He clinked his glass to Kurt's. Kurt made no effort to reciprocate. "Instead, why don't you tell me about yourself, and what you're doing to fill your time in this cultural wasteland."

"I hardly think it's a wasteland."

"Farmland, then. Not exactly the sort of night life you're used to, I'm assuming."

"I think it's beautiful—"

"And boring," Sebastian interjected. "It must be driving you crazy, not being in the city, especially after living in New York. At least I can get into San Francisco without too much of a problem. If it were any further away, I'd snap."

"If you don't like this life, why did you get into this business?"

"Because it's the family business and someday, I plan to inherit it. So I'd better master it before I do," Sebastian said with shocking candor.

"Dalton?"

"Of course not. My family's interests are back east. But this is an important pit stop."

That seemed to be the trick. Sebastian focused on himself, telling Kurt about his family's winery on the North Fork of Long Island, and the lineage of family interests in the wine industry that could be traced to the Loire Valley. That side of the Smythe family had gone on to concentrate on the production of Cognac, and Sebastian said he was interested in diversifying the family's liquor interests in the U.S. once he gained control of the business.

"Wine's fine, but there are big, emerging markets that we're not taking advantage of," he said. "Look at the growth of the vodka business, and scotch. And the reintroduction of absinthe in the US market. I can definitely see jumping into the absinthe market."

_A spirit distilled from wormwood. How appropriate_ , Kurt thought.

"There's just so much more we can be than a simple winery. We need to diversify."

"Are you talking about your family business or Dalton?" Kurt asked, wondering if Dalton's chief winemaker had thought much about the historic winery at all while plotting his future.

"Maybe a bit of both. Dalton was stuck in the past, a big winery, a big name, but so far out of step with the market. Why not look beyond wine, or at least to wine-related products, or marketing to a younger audience?"

Sebastian went on to detail how he had already charted a course for Dalton to move past its traditional methodology into winemaking tied deeply to the lab, to biochemistry, to secondary fermentation dependent on additives, particularly customized yeast strains developed to encourage the taste of berries in one wine, cassis in another. This was not unusual in modern winemaking, of course, but it was a dramatic departure from Dalton tradition.

"And you're planning on taking Dalton into liquor and spirits? Isn't that a marketing decision?"

"The direction that I steer the production in is the direction of the winery, so my decisions  _are_  marketing decisions — the most important marketing decisions. I can see the Dalton crest on so much more than wine, and targeted to broader markets than wine shops. Vinegar production to be paired with locally-cultivated olive oil, sold as high end salad dressing in your better supermarkets. Single-serve wines packaged in pop-tops. Simple, drinkable wines with interesting names and labels for new wine drinkers. And sure, why not scotch? It's aged in the same barrels we order for aging our reds. I've got big plans for Dalton, and myself."

"So you spend more time on the business side than in the vineyard, then?"

"Why would I waste my time out there?" Sebastian snapped. "We have crews for that."

"Well, I just know some winemakers like to be involved in the pruning and development of their vines."

"Don't confuse me with a viticulturist — or a field hand. I don't spend every waking minute playing with grapes, and I don't have much reason to be wasting my time in the vineyard," he said. "There's no reason for me to be out there picking fruit. I'll check the brix and the growth, when necessary, but my job's in the winery and the lab."

"I guess that explains the ensemble," Kurt said under his breath, but loud enough for Sebastian to hear.

"What? I've got to be a slob to make wine?  _This_  is my job, too. And I plan on looking good for it. Really? Aren't we finished with this yet? I can think of much better things to talk about."

Kurt didn't want to play into this.

"I have a column to write."

"And then what? C'mon. You didn't tell me how you entertain yourself out here in the middle of nowhere."

"I work."

"I hear you're entertaining yourself with our mutual friend in Sonoma, like,  _all the time_."

"Excuse me?"

" _Blaine_ ," he said, letting the name drip off his tongue. "How is our little friend?"

"He's just helping me get an in with some of the smaller wineries over there," Kurt said, wishing he could reel the 'just' back in. 

Sebastian gave him a cold stare, and gradually, as if the idea forming in his head had lifted the corners of his mouth into a calculated smirk, grinned salaciously. "Now, why would we feel the need to say that?" he said, leaning in, closing in on Kurt's personal space.

Kurt didn't usually shrink from aggressors, but Sebastian Smythe made him feel like prey.

"You're  _just_  working on those little Sonoma wineries? You haven't  _considered_  working on anything else? Because it's certainly understandable if you did. All that skill wrapped up in a package of pretty. Who can blame a guy?"

"I think you've got the wrong idea, and I don't like where this conversation is going," Kurt said, doing his best to sound intimidating.

"Trust me, he's a waste of your time. I have a better idea. Come into the city with me this weekend. I can show you around. I know some great clubs. We'll ditch this place together and spend time where we  _belong_."

"I don't get involved with people I'm working with," Kurt said.

"Who said anything about getting involved?" Sebastian stopped short, then let one of those lopsided grins take over his face. "On the other hand, I could really get behind mixing business and pleasure."

Kurt snapped his recorder off, shut his notebook and rolled his eyes. He'd had enough.

"Seriously? You have got to be kidding me. Where's the hidden camera? Does this usually work for you? Do people actually fall for this?" 

"All the time, sweetheart."

Kurt got up to leave.

"Do you think that was smart? What if you just ruined Dalton's chances of being selected for the Challenge? I'm the one who makes that decision, and the wineries haven't been announced yet. Who's to say I won't pull the plug on this story?"

"Oh, we're in. You wouldn't have come here if we weren't. And you'll be writing about me, and following up to schedule the photographer, even if you don't want to."

"You're spectacularly delusional."

"And your editor is calling the shots. I'll see you soon, and my offer stands."

****

>  
>
>>  ** _SANTA ROSA UNION-APPEAL_**
>> 
>>  ** _Finalists Announced for_ Taste _'s Napa-Sonoma Showdown_**
>> 
>> Jacob Ben Israel  
> Staff Writer
>> 
>>  _After a month of evaluating some of the region's finest wines,_ Taste _Magazine on Wednesday announced its finalists for the_ Taste _Challenge, a blind tasting pitting the best of Napa against challengers from Sonoma._
>> 
>>  _Styled after the Judgement at Paris tasting of 1976_ ** _,_** _the_ Taste _Challenge will see some of Napa's most storied wineries competing against a group of lesser-known boutique wineries from Sonoma._
>> 
>>  _The Challenge will feature 10 finalists — five each from Napa and Sonoma — face off in two divisions: whites and reds. The divisions will be left broad and tested blind, with full-flavored Chardonnays competing against lighter Sauvignon Blancs and Viogniers._
>> 
>>  _"It's not about finding the best Chardonnay, or the best Pinot Blanc," said_ Taste _Magazine wine editor Kurt Hummel, who announced the list of finalists in his online column Wednesday. "It's about judging each wine on its individual merits and finding the very best of the best."_
>> 
>>  _Representing Napa in the red division will be the historic Dalton Estate Winery of St. Helena, led by new chief winemaker Sebastian Smythe; Carmel Cellars of Oakville; Westvale Wines of Carneros Creek; Defiance Vineyards and Wines of Calistoga and Westerville Wines of St. Helena._
>> 
>>  _Sonoma's reds will be represented by some of the region's up-and-coming boutique wineries: Rhapsody Vineyards and Wine of Glen Ellen; Haverbrook Wines of Alexander Valley; Rosedale Vineyards of Healdsburg; Addams Family Wines of Kenwood and 12 Steps from Sebastopol._
>> 
>>  _Two of the wineries competing in the red wine division were also named as finalists in the white wine competition._
>> 
>>  _For Napa, Dalton Estate's 2010 Reserve Chardonnay will join white wines from Rutherford's St. James Estate; Corcoran Wines of the Diamond Mountain District; Clarington Estate Wines of Stag's Leap and Sylvester House from Atlas Peak._
>> 
>>  _Rhapsody will also compete in the white wine division with its 2010_ Allegrezza _Roussanne; where it will be joined by by wines from Rhode House Winery of Rockpile; Holliday Hill of the Russian River Valley; PIllsbury Wines of Chalk Hill and Tibideaux Estate Vineyards from the Sonoma Coast._
>> 
>>  _Hummel evaluated hundreds of wines to narrow the field to 10. While the choices of smaller Sonoma winemakers versus established Napa brands was intentional, the small wineries earned the right to compete, he said._
>> 
>>  _"I think our judges have their work cut out for them," Hummel said. "I discovered hidden treasures at some of the small wineries of Sonoma, and Napa roared out of the gates with its established quality still firmly intact."_
>> 
>>  _It has been suggested that the competition has been staged as a David versus Goliath match, but Hummel said that it is important to remember who won that match._
>> 
>>  _"Never write off a label just because you haven't heard of it before."_
>> 
>>  _Tickets to the competition, scheduled for June 15th at the UC Davis Mondavi Center for the Performing Arts, are already sold out. Limited seating is still available for the_ Taste _Magazine Nights of Champions, a charity reception and auction June 8th at the Culinary Institute of America at Greystone honoring the finalists, through the Napa Wine Bureau and the Sonoma Wine Association. Proceeds will benefit the UC Davis Department of Enology and Viticulture and fund scholarships for aspiring winemakers._
> 
>  

****

3:45p Kurt: You there?

4:01p Kurt: There's no hiding, no more ducking this. It's official.

4:05p Blaine:  _What?_

4:06p Kurt: You're a finalist, and the subject of an upcoming column, with an upcoming deadline.

4:09p Blaine:  _I see_.

4:10p Kurt: It's time Blaine, we need to do this.

********

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks as always to iconicklaine (klaineaddict), sillygleekt and buckeyegrrl, who have lent a hand throughout.


	12. Chapter 12A

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The first half of a split chapter I'll be posting over the weekend...

"Is this really necessary, Kurt?"

Blaine sat forward in a rocking chair on the veranda, concentrating on the dog demanding repeated belly rubs. "You already know all this, and it's a busy week. We're bottling..."

"Would you rather I wrote this off the top of my head, from memory? Blaine, it's better this way, an interview. That way, I can limit what I write just to the things we discuss today. That, and observation. Nothing more. I promise. Anything else? That's privileged. That's private. And I won't take up too much of your time, okay?"

Blaine nodded, kept watching the dog, and bit his lip. 

"Okay."

"Tell me why you're so uncomfortable with this."

"Have we started? Is this the interview?" Blaine looked up, rubbing his forehead, looking pained.

Kurt picked up his recorder, and shut it off. He snapped his notebook shut, and set it on the table.

"No. We don't start until you're ready."

Blaine nodded, more to himself than to Kurt.

He was looking out to the vineyard, but there was no focus to the view. He was persistently scratching the dog, but his actions were automated, mindless as he circled, circled, and circled again with his hand.

"Do you want to tell me about it, Blaine? Because I'll listen. No judgement. No notebooks."

He shook his head no, then nodded it yes, then looked up to the sky as if it would tell him what to say.

"Do you want to know, really?"

"Not professionally."

Blaine's face was a balance between a clenched smile and a grimace. 

"You already know."

He took a breath to collect himself, and tried to form words that he didn't want to speak,  facts that he needed to broach, despite the risk they posed to the fragile friendship that he had hoped could be more. 

"Was it in college? Back at Cornell?"

Blaine still couldn't meet Kurt's eyes, but he tentatively found his voice.

"No. That was just like I said, just a lab or two. I haven't lied about anything, Kurt. I haven't been exactly forthcoming, but I haven't lied. College was just college. We hung out a few times, at parties. He hit on me, but he hits on _everyone_. I never thought much about it."

"I can definitely see that," Kurt said grimly.

"He didn't..."

"Oh, he did. He invited me to San Francisco for the weekend. And no, I'm _not_ going."

Blaine allowed himself a half-hearted little smile, then reeled it back in. "So, what did he say?"

"Not that much, really. He inferred a few things and then let them hang in the air awhile." 

Blaine shut his eyes tightly, trying to block out the images criss-crossing his memory. _A desk, a mahogany bookcase, an oxblood couch. Wine. Clothes haphazardly tossed around an office in the dead of night._

"How nice of him," Blaine said, pinching the bridge of his nose in an effort to shut out the building stress behind his eyes. "Kurt, I'm so sorry."

"For what? For your past? It _is_ your past, right?"

"Of course it is. I really don't like that guy. I don't think I ever really did. But I used to think he was relatively harmless."

"So what was it?" Kurt said, delicately navigating the emotional minefield to try to reach Blaine.

"It was nothing, Kurt. It meant _nothing_. We weren't _involved_. It was just a short... That day in the vineyard, when you asked about Rhapsody being isolated? It is, it _was_ , especially when I was first getting my footing here. I just felt really alone. He was someone I knew, something familiar. I ran into him over in Napa one night. We started  drinking, and..."

_Chest draped against a sweat-slicked back, arms wrapped tight around his waist, reaching..._

"A one night stand?"

He opened his eyes, and looked at Kurt for the first time since he'd ventured down this thorny path.

"No, but it was very short-lived. _Very short-lived_ , Kurt. It wasn't a relationship. It wasn't much more than a weekend, really. Whatever it was, it was a _mistake_. It's something I regret. It's an embarrassment. It's not like me. And it's something I just felt you should  hear from me."

Blaine punctuated his words with a forceful rhythm, stressing the negatives; the _nos_ , the _nevers_ , the _not ever agains_.

"He's never let me forget it and he is constantly dropping hints about it. I hate it, and I can't escape it. So I just stay as far away from him as possible."

Blaine fully expected to see Kurt pull away. If the thought of Sebastian Smythe made his own skin crawl, he could only imagine what Kurt thought. Worse yet, what would Kurt now think of him, his judgement and his brief, humiliating fling with his Napa rival?

But instead, he leaned forward, toward Blaine, reaching out and taking his hand. Kurt skimmed Blaine's knuckles gently with his thumb, caressing the skin with a gentle, reassuring touch. "It's okay. It's okay, Blaine.

"Is that why you've been so reluctant to do this? Because he might be competing too? You must run into the guy from time-to-time."

"Not if I can avoid it. The two of us competing, being compared, side-by-side? Nightmare, it's a complete nightmare to me. I don't want to be around him. I don't want him near me." 

 _Or you_ , Blaine thought. 

"I don't want people to know about this," he said, his voiced hushed. "I'm trusting you, Kurt."

"And you can. I told you I've got no professional interest in this. None. But I'm glad you told me, that you felt you could trust me."

Kurt squinted, and the corner of his mouth turned up in a tiny, troublemaking grin.

"Seriously, Blaine? _Smythe?_ Couldn't you have just downloaded some porn? Not gonna lie. You're not exactly the kind of guy I picture him with," Kurt said, finally breaking through Blaine's reserve.

Blaine choked back a laugh. "And that would be?"

"I'm thinking maybe a horny cell mate with daddy issues... So—you want to get started now?"

Blaine sniffed, and nodded, and quietly wondered who Kurt pictured _him_ with.

****

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My thanks as always to klaineaddict, sillygleekt and buckeyegrrl for art, advice, edits and keeping my head in the game. Thanks also to justusunicorns, who contributed a valuable and accurate head canon for this chapter...


	13. Chapter 12B

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The second half of Chapter 12, another Kurt Hummel column for Taste Magazine. Or, you can read it in the Taste Magazine format (it looks great!) here:
> 
>  
> 
> [Sotto Voce 12B](http://64.37.48.241/~sillygle/tastemag/uncorked/12-a-tale-of-two-winemakers.htm)
> 
>  

** UNCORKED **

Kurt Hummel,  _Taste_  Wine Editor

**A YEAR IN THE VALLEY  
A Tale of Two Winemakers**

**Young Winemakers Studied Together, But Followed Different Paths to the _Taste_  Challenge Finals**

The  _Taste_  Challenge isn't a simple undertaking.

It's not just a wine competition. Plenty of people (including me) have pegged it as a David versus Goliath battle, as conglomerate versus boutique, or as a modern day Judgement at Paris.

They wouldn't be wrong. But it's also much, much more.

It would have been easy enough to draft the biggest of big names to compete in the blind tasting, but we were looking for something more, something that represents what  _Taste_  brings to its readers: cutting edge trends.

So as I vetted hundreds of wines to narrow the field to the 20 top wines, I looked for something extra — the next generation of winemakers who may just shape our palates for years to come.

Vintners from two of the wineries selected to compete in the Challenge exemplify that, and both presented wines distinguished enough to compete in both the red and white wine competitions — the only winemakers to achieve this honor.

Dalton Estate's 2008 Meritage may predate its chief winemaker's tenure with the storied winery, but it signaled an evolving style that made his hiring an inevitability. The wine defines "big red," a dominating blend of classic Bordeaux varietals. The Meritage is Dalton's signature wine, an in-your-face statement of Napa's prestige and powerful Cabernets. The St. Helena winery will also compete with its 2010 Reserve Chardonnay, as unsubtle as it is refined.

Isolated in the hills above Glen Ellen, Rhapsody Vineyards and Wine also secured spots in both the red and white finals with wines you may never have heard of before, and would be hard pressed to find for sale. Its 2010  _Allegrezza_ Roussanne hints of spring flowers and grass, a delicate and bright Rhône wine. The winery's limited production  _Sotto Voce_  is complex, a layered and subtle Syrah blend that initially presents as one wine, but opens up and evolves into something entirely different.

(To readers who will seek out these wines to conduct their own blind tastings, a couple of notes: First, good luck. A couple of these wines are produced in very limited numbers and may not be available at your local wine retailer. Second, while we are releasing the identities of the final wines prior to the event, I will not publish my tasting notes on each wine until after the  _Taste_ Challenge, so as not to bias the judges at the Mondavi Center — or in your own tasting room.)

The vintners behind these extraordinary wines share common backgrounds, common bonds. Both are young, single and singularly focused on their goals. They started down the same path, but ultimately have taken very different roads to the June 15th Challenge.

They could not have landed in more different places, even if they are working only 20 miles apart.

Dalton Estate Winery hired Sebastian Smythe as its chief winemaker nearly three years ago in a bold statement intended to steer the venerable label in dramatic new directions. His plans for the renowned label are bolder still, with plans for expansion into new models, new products and new markets that some would argue outstrip the responsibilities of a vintner.

Catchy, perhaps kitschy, names? Smythe says "Sure, why not?" Single-serve wine? Absolutely, if it attracts a new market. Branching out to liquor and spirits? A distinct possibility.

His roots in the industry run deep, and may be the foundation for his audacious plans.

The son of Smythe Holdings Corp. founder J. Wellington Smythe, owner of JW Wines in the North Fork wine appellation, Smythe was raised in the business of liquor and spirits. He is the heir apparent of the winery, and his experience at Dalton is likely to be be training for a future as the head of the respected Long Island label.

A product of the eastern prep school and Ivy League elite, Smythe earned degrees in enology and agricultural economics from Cornell University, where he also captained the Lacrosse team. The competitive drive of team sports fuels his work to this day.

Smythe strikes an imposing figure at the winery, where he is as much chief marketer as head winemaker. Cut from a modern cloth, he looks to a future that relies as much on business acumen as it does on organic chemistry to tailor wines to both inexperienced and refined palates.

"The pool of oenophiles willing to fork over $150 for a bottle of Cab is aging and shrinking," he said. "We need to develop younger markets, get them drinking wine with products that are friendly to inexperienced palates and marketed to attract their attention. Once they develop that initial taste for wine, we build the next generation of wine connoisseurs."

He splits his time between the lab, the winery and a well-appointed office in the iconic winery building, the site of presidential visits and countless weddings. As tuned in to the business of Dalton as the winemaking he spearheads, Smythe's workday uniform is designer business casual, and seems to help him slip undetected through Dalton's well-heeled tasting room crowd.

He has little time or patience for tourists, and is unapologetic for his ambition and for his brash style. He is also, without question, a talented winemaker and smart businessman whose skills made him a natural choice to lead Dalton into a new era of winemaking.

"Maybe it's a product of my upbringing," he said. "But if it works, and we successfully produce and sell good wine, who really has a right to complain? We make some of the world's finest wines, and I intend to tailor new looks and tastes for emerging markets in the global wine business."

Perhaps his chief rival in the  _Taste_  Challenge is Rhapsody owner Blaine Anderson, who comes from a background that nearly mirrors that of Smythe, but could not have ended up in a more different place.

Like Smythe, Anderson is a product of prep schools and the Ivy League. But Anderson moved west for his post-graduate education, studying at UC Davis while slowly nurturing a small parcel of hillside land outside Glen Ellen into the bucolic vineyards of Rhapsody Wines.

He shunned opportunities that would have had him mirror Smythe's meteoric climb among Napa's elite to cultivate a small but respected business as an artisan vintner, specializing in Rhône varietals and  _méthode traditionelle.Â_

Anderson is a quiet but passionate winemaker who has put his heart before his market share. A small producer, his wines have a dedicated local following that make it difficult to find Rhapsody vintages for sale, even by the country's most exclusive retailers. The winery, a large but modern barn, is private and the facility does not accommodate visitors.

Anderson's talent and passion for music reflect both the thematic names and the winery's logo: a Claddagh with inverted treble clefs omnipresent to every bottle of Rhapsody's vintages. The wines include  _Allegrezza_ ,  _Mezzo_ ,  _Appassionatto, Fortissimo and Sotto Voce_. Each name is selected to reflect characteristics of the wine that bares its name, Anderson said, from the brightness of the delicate Roussanne to the subtle complexity of the extraordinary  _Sotto Voce_ Rhône blend _._

Anderson had once planned to pursue music as a career, but economic reality steered him toward an education and career in the world of science. As a chemistry student at Cornell, he discovered the viticulture and enology program. After earning degrees in chemistry and enology/viticulture, he joined the UC David graduate EVO program and spent weekends planting the small swath of hillside with Syrah and other Rhône varietals.

He eschews the label "Rhône Ranger" that he and others specializing in wines of the French appellation have earned.

"I'm not trying to make a statement by producing Rhône varietals," he said. "The terroir of Rhapsody is very similar to that of the Rhône region, so it only made sense to specialize in wines of that region. It's important, I think, for winemakers to understand the geography, the climate and the nature of the land where they source their grapes. It will influence the character of the wine, its personality for lack of a better word, for years to come."

Anderson splits his time between winery and vines, working alongside a small vineyard crew during harvest and pruning. His work uniform is a t-shirt and jeans; his constant companion is a sheepdog.

Unlike large-scale wineries like Dalton, much of the work at Rhapsody is completed by hand, without any automation. The signature  _Sotto Voce_  blend is produced in the most artisanal of styles: a free run of juice from the most select vines in the Rhapsody vineyard, fermented naturally, and bottled by hand in a all-night push of work by Anderson and his chief assistant.

On a recent night, the two worked feverishly to finish bottling  _Sotto Voce_  until nearly two o'clock in the morning. Anderson then commenced with final production of a new blend, as yet unnamed, until well past sunrise.

Why doesn't he simply hand off his instructions to a production team?

"It's why you become a winemaker — to create something. Why would I turn that over to someone? That's a part of the art of winemaking, and it's why I got into this in the first place," he said. "As a winemaker, you pay attention to the vineyard, you listen to the vines. They tell you when they're ready. And the same goes for the wine itself. It's basically a living, breathing thing. It's my job to nurture it and help it along its way."

Perhaps a product of competing styles, the two winemakers are not close. Much like the two neighboring regions that they represent, they not only subscribe to the official _one for all_ Wine Country mantra, but also harbor a feisty competitive streak.

They'll get a chance to exercise it — and perhaps claim bragging rights — June 15th at the Mondavi Center in Davis.

* * *

_Kurt Hummel is currently on year-long assignment in California, reporting for his "A Year in the Valley" series on the west coast wine industry._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Big thanks as always to klaineaddict, who has a great sense of what works in storytelling, and buckeyegrrl for the logo. And big thanks to sillygleekt, who not only edits for my grammatical lapses, but also created and applies this great Taste Magazine layout. Thanks, T!


	14. Chapter 13

The weeks leading up to the  _Taste_  Challenge found Kurt impossibly busy, partly out of necessity.

 

Partly due to avoidance. 

 

He had interviews and site visits for upcoming  _A Year in the Valley_  columns, meetings with sponsors and organizers of both the Challenge and the Night of Champions, not to mention  preparation for Quinn's imminent arrival.

 

And ever since his uncomfortable meeting with Sebastian Smythe, he had felt an unwelcome pressure to steer clear of Blaine, at least publicly.

 

They had stayed in touch, calling and texting with relative frequency, but the suggestion of meeting for dinner, or drinks, or lunch, was inevitably met with a schedule conflict.

 

Most of them were legitimate.

 

"I'm sorry, but I'm up at Greystone to meet with the CIA reps about the menu and wine pairings for the fundraiser."

 

"I'm headed over to Napa to pick up supplies, Kurt. Maybe I could meet you up there and we could get some lunch."

 

"I can't. It's going to be meetings, meetings, meetings all afternoon."

 

"Early dinner?"

 

"I have to write  _sometime_ , Blaine."

 

"You know, sometimes it almost feels like you're avoiding me."

 

 _Protecting you is more like it_ , Kurt thought.  _And me_.

 

"You know, I think I deserve a raise. Because I don't know many editors whose job description includes 'party planner,' and Quinn will be here soon, which makes it doubly bad. We'll be doing press leading right up to both events," Kurt said, trying to redirect the conversation. "I do have  question for you, though."

 

"Fire away."

 

"For the Night of Champions, the fundraiser..."

 

"Yes?"

 

"I was wondering..."

 

"Yes, Kurt?"

 

"Would you have any bottles of  _Sotto Voce_  and  _Allegrezza_  that you could donate to the auction? I'd really like to get all of the Challenge wines represented."

 

Blaine dropped his voice, but his disappointment was full volume.

 

"Sure, Kurt. How do you want me to get them to you? Should I drop them off with Santana, or at the CIA so you don't have to see me?"

 

"Blaine..."

 

"Don't think I don't know what you're doing."

 

Kurt ducked into a quiet corner of the stone castle, the west coast home of the Culinary Institute of America. 

 

"We talked about this. It wouldn't look right."

 

"To eat lunch?"

 

"With a Challenge finalist. No, it wouldn't," Kurt said, keeping his voice low and turning away from people as they passed by. "People are already talking."

 

"He's talking. And he's hardly  _people_ , Kurt."

 

"Whatever he is, he egged me on about spending time with you. Imagine what he'd do if  he found out we were out together—"

 

"Eating..."

 

"Doesn't matter, Blaine. He would use that to taint the Challenge, claim bias, damage both of our reputations."

 

"It's lunch, for Christ's sake! So now we're not allowed to eat because of one guy who lives for innuendo?"

 

"Blaine..."

 

"I thought we were friends, Kurt. Friends are allowed to eat an occasional meal together."

 

"We  _are_  friends. We are. We just need to exercise a little discretion."

 

"Funny, the first time you said that, you said that until this thing was behind us, all we could be is friends. Now it seems like even that's being shelved."

 

"You know that's not true." 

 

Kurt was right, of course, and Blaine knew it. Like so many Kurt Hummel ideas, it didn't mean he had to like it. But with time and familiarity, he'd learned that he could find a way to accept it.

 

"I guess I was just kind of getting used to you being around here," he said, caving.

 

He could almost hear Kurt's closed-mouth smile through the phone.

 

"Me, too."

 

"Kurt?"

 

"Yeah?"

 

"I'll drop the wine off with Santana for you."

 

****

 

The driver delivered Kurt back to Bardessono shortly after 6 p.m., where he was quickly flagged down by the front desk staff. Messages, several of them, were all from Quinn, who had either forgotten his cellular number or just didn't care.

 

_I'm here._

 

_Have you wrapped the menu? Am I going to see it?_

 

_We need to meet._

 

_How about dinner? Thomas said he could get us a late table at The French Laundry._

 

"Ugh." 

 

Kurt's sigh was louder than he expected, and the fastidious young woman at the front desk looked over sympathetically.

 

"She's in the bar," the clerk said. "She seemed a little anxious."

 

Kurt said his thanks, and ducked over to the corner wine bar off the hotel lobby. In the far corner sat Quinn, her elegant attire and regal face betrayed by habits Kurt knew all too well as her manifestation of stress. 

 

With one hand, she scrolled through emails and texts that had collected on her phone during her six hour flight from New York. 

 

With the other, she tapped nervously at the table, shifting occasionally to pick up a glass of what appeared to be Pinot Noir. It didn't appear to be her first.

 

Kurt strolled toward her table, working to maintain a calm demeanor to thwart any vitriol headed his way.

 

"Tell me this is under control," she said, aimlessly swirling her wine in her glass.

 

"It's under control."

 

"Did we finally get all the judges confirmed?" she asked, tapping the table.

 

"The last of them, just today."

 

"Wines for the event?"

 

"All delivered and cellared."

 

"The menu?" she pressed, seemingly both anxious about and disinterested in the details.

 

"Finalized mere moments ago. We even have our auction items secured for the fundraiser." Kurt loosened his tie, sat down, and placed his hand on her arm in a gesture meant to comfort. "Quinn, we're good. Now tell me what's wrong."

 

"We just have a lot to do," she insisted, finally sipping at the wine.

 

"No, we really don't, other than a cycle of interviews — which are all lined up — and show up. I have this covered. Now tell me what's really bothering you — and why you haven't gone to the spa to get it out of your system."

 

When Quinn — a bastion of physical if not emotional refinement — suddenly ran her hand through her hair, Kurt realized the severity of whatever issue she had. Quinn Fabray never mussed her hair. Never.

 

She stared him down, her green eyes looking venomous for moments before they misted over, just slightly.

 

"Is she going to be there?"

 

 _Oh god, not again_ , Kurt thought. He'd survived many an angry rant, generally followed by drunken, weepy confessions, on this subject. He was not prepared for another, not tonight. 

 

He flagged the waitress and asked for the bar menu and a glass of Frog's Leap Cabernet. Quinn needed to get some food in her stomach to go with the... two?... glasses of wine she had already nearly finished, and Kurt was tempted to catch up.

 

"Of course she is. You know she is. Haven't you talked to her about this?"

 

"I haven't talked to her about anything. We haven't talked in ages. It's avoidance by mutual consent. Detente."

 

"Well, you'd better get used to that changing, and quick. Because the two of you are about to see a lot of each other."

 

****

 

Blaine backed himself into the office of the Sonoma Wine Bureau just before it closed for the day, juggling a case of wine and a temperamental door handle.

 

"Now  _that's_  an entrance."

Santana stood across the room, arms folded, smirk affixed to her face.

"You gonna help me?" Blaine asked, craning his head around his shoulder to try to make eye contact.

"Wasn't really planning on it," Santana sighed dramatically. "You know, people come here from all over the world for the world-class view. All I have to do is stand around my office."

She held the door open for him and tried to catch a glance of the contents of the  cardboard box in his arms.

"Early Christmas? I've been a  _very_  good girl this year."

Blaine set the box down on a nearby desk and arched an eyebrow at her.

"Okay, fine. I haven't. What's in the box?"

"Some bottles for that  _Taste_  charity auction. I told Kurt I'd leave them with you."

It was Santana's turn to give Blaine  _The Look._

"You're kidding, right? I mean, I'm happy to hold them — I might drink them — but I'm a little surprised. I'd have thought that you and Precious would be looking for excuses to collaborate."

"Don't."

"What? Don't deny what's obvious, short stack. I know you, and I know what I see. Tell me what's up."

"Nothing. He just asked me to donate some wine."

"And you're not delivering it to him in person. Come on. What gives? You two were thick as thieves for weeks. And I've seen how you look at each other."

"We were working together. Now he's busy, and I'm busy. He's sending someone over to pick up the wine. That's it. Drop it."

"Testy, testy."

Blaine's eyes affixed themselves somewhere just south of Santana's chin. His body went rigid, collapsing in on itself, making him look even more diminutive and considerably weaker than he actually was.

Snap.

Snap, snap. 

Snap, snap, SNAP.

"Snap out of it," Santana barked, loudly and repeatedly snapping her fingers in front of Blaine's face. "Oh shit. I know that look. I've never seen it on  _your_  face, but I know it. I just thought maybe you were gettin' some —  _finally_. But that's not it, is it?" 

Blaine was silent. There was nothing, but nothing, to say.

"Come on, handsome. You're buying me a drink, maybe several. I think you need a little 'Tana Truth Time."

She grabbed her purse and nearly dragged him from the office by the elbow, making a beeline across the square for The Girl and the Fig, her post-work indulgence that occurred with greater and greater frequency as the week of the  _Taste_  Challenge neared.

****

The Town Car pulled up the long, tree-lined drive to Greystone, just one in a long line of identical vehicles. Blaine would have been happy in his jeep —  _the contrast would be delicious,_  he thought — but sponsors of  _Taste's_  Night of Champions insisted that Challenge finalists arrive in style... and get home in one piece.

Diego squirmed next to him, looking uncomfortably polished in a traditional rented tuxedo. He had tried to turn down Blaine's invitation to be his plus-one, but there was no saying no.

"You deserve to be there as much as I do," he had said, handing Diego the business card of a tux shop. Diego had made a face, but again, he couldn't turn down Blaine's offer to pick up the tab for the black tie dinner.

"What's the story with this thing? New Yorkers showing off?" Diego said, eyeing the line of uniformly black cars.

"A little," Blaine said with a chuckle. "But it's good for us, for the community. And it's an open bar."

Blaine wasn't enchanted by the showiness of the event, but he had to admit that  _Taste_  was doing something good by creating a scholarship endowment at the UC Davis School of Enology and Viticulture. The money raised would help pay tuition for local students who qualified, financially and academically, to study in the prestigious program.  _It had to have been Kurt's idea_ , Blaine thought, though Kurt had never taken credit for it.

He also didn't mind an event that would allow him to finally see Kurt again, even though it might be fleeting. Kurt had already warned him that he would be lucky to spend much time seated at the  _Taste_  Magazine table, because he would be checking to make sure that everything was running according to plan: the right food with the right wine served at the right time, that the auction items were properly displayed, and that both the live and silent auctions were timed to conclude before the jazz combo was scheduled to start playing promptly at 9 p.m.

He was one of 18 winemakers to be honored in the program, and in that brief moment on stage accepting his gift or acknowledgement or certificate, he would at least have a moment with Kurt, and he decided to take it.  He had spent extra time preparing, styling his sometimes unruly curls into a well-shaped coif, and making sure that the notched lapels on his trim-cut Calvin Klein tux rested just so against his chest.

As they shuffled up the walkway of  the cut-stone castle, they found Santana, hands on hips, decked out in a shimmering, form-fitting red gown with lips painted to match.

"Ms. Lopez, you are a vision in red," Blaine said.

"I know, I know — devil in a red dress," she said, taking his arm.

"How are you holding up?

"I haven't run into her yet, if that's what you're asking. And I could use a drink before I do."

"Well, I'm pretty sure you've come to the right place."

They entered the dining hall to a view of crisp white linens, creamy arrangements of white roses, accents of candlelight reflecting off the collections of crystal stemware arranged on each table. It was clean, sleek and elegant, all the while remaining warm and inviting. 

Santana whistled. "Gotta hand it to him, our man's got a good eye."

Blaine allowed himself a private smile at the words.

As they found their seats among the five tables reserved by the Sonoma Wine Bureau, Blaine found himself cornered by an officious meeting planner, who herded him to the back of the room with other  _Taste_  Challenge winemakers signing their auction items with gold Sharpie pens and posing for the event photographer. He could see Sebastian holding court at the far end of the table, Bob Devries at his side, pressing the flesh. Blaine signed, posed and left the area as quickly as possible.

He found his way back to Santana and Diego with deliberate speed.

"Are they done with you?" Santana said. "Because I intend to keep you close tonight."

"Keeping me out of trouble?"

"No, you're keeping me out of trouble," she said, eyeing Blaine toward the table front and center, the  _Taste_  Magazine table, where Kurt and Quinn were deep in conversation. Kurt looked focused, serious and elegant, his hair sculpted to sweep up from his face; his tuxedo — Armani, Blaine guessed — a traditional box shape tailored to contour Kurt's slim physique.

Blaine gulped, then reached for his glass. And missed.

"Oh, yeah. There's nothing there. Nothing at all," Santana said, raising an empty martini glass. "King me."

Blaine kept his eye on the central table through much of the evening, watching Kurt come and go with each course and each new wine pairing. A Grenache rosé with appetizers. Viognier with the citrus-tinged salad. Chardonnay with the salmon. A Cab-Petit Verdot blend with the filet. 

As servers delivered a pairing of dark chocolate soufflé and port, Kurt rose again, Quinn at his side, and headed for the stage.

Santana flinched, then reached for her drink. "Here's to chauffeurs."

Index cards carefully hidden in his palm, Kurt stepped to the podium, and addressed the well-heeled crowd. He talked about the Challenge, and how he had "taken one for the team," sampling hundreds of high quality Napa and Sonoma region wines to narrow the field to a final 20 for the blind taste event.

Quinn remained offstage during the introduction, but she could be seen in the wings from the Sonoma tables looking fashionable, aloof and maybe a little bit jittery. She focused on Kurt for most of his speech, but from time to time, her eyes darted across the room, landing squarely on their table. Blaine could see Santana make eye contact with her, only to have Quinn look away.

"How are we doing?" Blaine asked quietly.

"Long live the king," Santana said, rolling the cocktail glass in her hand. "Don't you want to hear this?"

Blaine shifted his focus back to Kurt.

"When my publisher told me about her plans for this event, and that those plans included moving me to California for a year, I thought she was crazy. I was sure that California had been done to death. But you have been full of surprises. You've kept me on my toes, and sometimes a little off-balance."

Kurt looked directly at Blaine.

"And now, with the Challenge a week away, I realize that this is only the beginning, and I can't wait to see what's around the corner."

In that moment, Blaine was certain his heart skipped a beat.

With that, Kurt introduced Quinn. She approached the podium to ardent applause, her face set with an impervious smile.

" _Taste_  Magazine's relationship with wine runs so much deeper than simple reviews and wine guides. It has always been our priority to find and embrace the new voices, the trendsetters, the future of this industry. So many of the winemakers we honor tonight reflect that."

Quinn went on to discuss Kurt's role in the fundraiser, how  _Taste_  could not only recognize new and exciting wines from the dueling counties, but also help shape the next generation of winemakers by funding scholarships in enology and viticulture.

Like any experienced speaker, Quinn's focus criss-crossed the room, addressing her statements to indivudal guests, making eye contact with them table-by-table. 

All but one.

As her speech concluded, she called the winemakers representing the  _Taste_  Challenge finalists to the stage,  presented each with an award, and turned the evening over to a professional auctioneer. 

Most of the donated items were sold via silent auction, but a select few were opened up to live bidding. The silent auction for the  _Taste_ Challenge wines remained open while guests bid on luxury vacations and spa days. When those items sold, the wines with the top three silent bids were made available in the live auction.

In third, and the first up for bid, was Dalton's 2008 Meritage. The wine typically retailed for close to $125, and a brief bidding war erupted.

Santana looked around the room, then poked Blaine in the ribs. 

"I'd heard that he'd taken up a collection to bid on the Napa wines and sure enough," she angled her head toward the back corner of the room, where Bob Devries was bidding up the Dalton wine. "Asshole."

The price was high, even for a charity event, but the auctioneer kept reminding the crowd that they were nurturing their future winemakers — and securing a sweet tax deduction.

The Meritage sold for $865.

Next up was another Napa wine, the St. James Estate Chardonnay. Devries again worked the crowd, driving bidding sky-high. The fact that the parent corporation of St. James Estate had bought tables to the event and filled them with C-Suite executives didn't hurt. The bidding slowed at $925, and drew the sound of the auctioneer's gavel at $945.

"And last but certainly not least is the wine the drew the highest initial bid in the silent auction," he said, as an assistant brought a familiar bottle to the stage, then handed the auctioneer a note.

"From Sonoma, the Rhapsody  _Sotto Voce._ And I have just received notice that we have a phone bidder for this wine."

Blaine and Santana exchanged puzzled looks, and Blaine looked around the room, looked for Kurt, but his seat at the  _Taste_  table was empty.

Devries stood still and mute, but the crowd took over, spurred in part by an auctioneer who was more than a little familiar with the rarity of the wine. "You can't find this in your local wine shop — yes, I have a bid for $600, do we have $625? Yes, $625 to our phone bidder. Do we have $650?"

The bidding continued, not frenzied but consistent, and settled into a one-up battle between the CEO of a wine conglomerate and the anonymous phone bidder. The bidding slowed as the price approached $1,700.

"Holy shit. That's more than 10 times the price," Blaine whispered.

"Shhh. It's for a good cause," Santana responded.

"Do we have $1,750? That's right, there's still room in our wallets for a good wine and scholarship. I have $1,750 on the phone. Do I have $1,800?"

The auctioneer paused.

The CEO reached his breaking point.

"And we have $1,750 going once. $1,750 going twice. SOLD to the charitable party on the phone!"

The crowd erupted in applause, gradually getting to its feet.

"That's crazy," Blaine said, bewildered.

"That's charity."

The auction completed, the jazz ensemble took the stage, and the rest of the Sonoma contingent saw it as their cue to let the party begin. The group grew louder, and the toasts grew longer and progressively filthier as the evening wore on. 

Blaine remained fairly quiet through it all, playing observer rather than participant. Santana was having none of it, and waved an empty cocktail glass in his face.

"If you think I'm making it through the next week without an excess of alcohol, you're sadly mistaken," she said.

"Another pawn gets coronated, I see," Blaine said, taking her glass with one hand, and giving her shoulder a reassuring squeeze with the other. He leaned in and kissed her cheek. "I'll be right back."

Blaine leaned against the bar, ordering another scotch for himself and a dirty martini for Santana. His back to the room, he set his elbows on the bar, resting his chin on his folded hands, when he sensed a body closing in on him, a breath brushing his neck.

"No one has a right to look that sexy in tux."

He froze.

"Not going to say hello, Blaine?"

He didn't move, and kept his eyes on the amber drink the bartender had just placed in front of him. 

"Hello, Sebastian."

The Dalton winemaker circled around, staying close, hovering in Blaine's space. He flagged the bartender without breaking eye contact. "Make it two."

"So that was a nice price you fetched for that little red of yours, but it made me wonder. Why would someone feel compelled to be an anonymous bidder at a local charity event, and what compelled them to pay nearly $1,750 for a $150 bottle of young wine?"

"Just charitable, I guess."

"Maybe someone was looking to pump up Sonoma's value. Maybe someone was looking to pump up  _your_  value."

"Maybe they wanted a tax deduction," Blaine snapped, turning around to face him.

Sebastian grinned, and lowered his voice. "Now Blaine, is that any way for us to talk? After all we've been through together? You know, that column of Hummel's? It got me thinking."

"Always dangerous..."

"Blaine, c'mon. He claims we're not close. I think we should be. It was good, when we were close."

"We were  _never_  close, Sebastian." Blaine turned to walk away from the bar, but Sebastian circled around, blocking his path, grabbing his forearm to stop him.

Sebastian pressed his  body close, using his grip on Blaine's arm for leverage.

"Really, sweetheart? Because you have to be close to remember what I remember — and I remember it  _vividly_. I know your body. I know the scar on your knee. I know that birthmark on your shoulder blade. I know what gets you off. I know the look on your face when you come, the way you clamp your eyes shut, the way you babble — oh, god, the babbling — the "o" you make with those  _talented_  lips. I remember it well, and it's unforgettable. It's  _stunning._ God, I'm getting hard just thinking about it."

"Then maybe you should go fuck yourself, Sebastian. Because I'm certainly not going to have anything to do with it. Haven't you figured out that I'm not interested?" 

"You were plenty interested before. We could pick up where we left off."

Fed up and anxious to leave, Blaine tried to twist his arm from Sebastian's grasp, but the grip simply tightened.

"Hmm. I was right, wasn't I? But Hummel's giving you the cold shoulder. You know what? He's a fool."

"No, he's actually a syndicated critic with a worldwide following whose getting a really good idea of what your next review's going to look like," said a voice, loud enough to be heard, quiet enough to sound menacing, just behind Sebastian's left ear. 

From a far corner of the room near an emergency exit, Kurt had looked up and seen the tense standoff developing by the bar. He hadn't waited long before he navigated the crowded obstacle course of bodies and tables that separated him from the clash between the former lovers.

Sebastian released Blaine's arm with Kurt's sudden appearance. He turned slowly, a grin creeping across his face. 

"Kurt. Such good timing. Blaine and I were just talking about taking this party on the road. Maybe you'd like to join us."

Kurt then stepped in close, and made sure only the two of them would hear his words.

“In case you didn’t hear, his answer is no,” Kurt whispered. “And my answer is  _hell no_.”

Sebastian looked to Blaine, then back to Kurt, picked up his drink and walked away, dragging a finger along Blaine's arm as he left.

Blaine, his face blanched, slumped. His deep exhale sounded like he was exorcising a ghost.

"You okay?" Kurt asked.

"If you still had questions about why I avoid that guy, I hope they were just answered. I just need to get out of here."

"He's gone now. Stay. This night's for you, and for all your friends at those tables over there," Kurt said, looking to the Sonoma tables, which had become the pulse of the room. The group was getting a little loud, and having a lot of laughs, and had clearly come to party.

"I need to leave."

"Are you still mad at me?"

"You just saved me from that guy. How could I be mad at you?"

"I don't know, maybe something about avoiding you?"

Blaine looked to the ceiling, rolling his eyes and curling his lips in an embarrassed smile.

"No, not mad."

"Do you want to go talk?"

"Kurt, if you couldn't be seen having lunch with me, what do you think people would say if they saw you leaving with me?"

Just as Blaine had begun to understand Kurt's reluctance to meet these past few weeks, Kurt had an epiphany of his own. He  _had_  become accustomed to all the time they'd spent together, and now that it had come to an abrupt halt, he missed it. He missed Blaine, and the confrontation with Smythe left him feeling strangely possessive.

Kurt leaned in as discreetly as possible, lowered his voice, and allowed himself a moment of honesty.

"That's true," he said. "But I'm not really sure I care any more."

Blaine let it sink in for a moment, then let the hand closest to the bar, away from the room full of prying eyes, rise to meet Kurt's elbow. "You care, Kurt. You wouldn't be where you are if you didn't. I'm going home now, and I'll see you next week."

Kurt shut his eyes and nodded. 

****

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I sound like a broken record by now I'm sure, but big thanks to iconicklaine for seeing the big picture, sillygleekt for concentrating on the minute detail and buckeyegrrl for an eye and talent for pretty things.


	15. Chapter 14

Santana tested the limits — or at least the suspension —  of her BMW, tossing it in and out of the rolling corners of the Sonoma Highway toward Interstate 80. Blaine did his best not to show his nerves, but clung to the passenger door armrest more than once.

"Everything okay over there?" he asked.

"I'm just trying to get to I-80 before traffic hits," she said, deep in concentration that Blaine only hoped was focused on the road ahead.

"We've got plenty of time to get to Davis. The meeting doesn't start 'til 10."

Quinn had scheduled a mandatory walk through of the _Taste_ Challenge for all finalists, publicists, organizers and others involved in the event. The only participants who would not be on hand were the judges, who were sequestered at a hotel in Sacramento and met with event planners separately.

The Mondavi Center was, on paper, an easy drive from either Napa or Sonoma. Hit the road at just the right moment, and it could be covered in under an hour. But the commuter traffic criss-crossing the valley between Sacramento and San Francisco had been known on occasion to double that drive-time. Santana and Blaine decided to leave early and grab a cup of coffee if the fates and traffic reports allowed.

"I've been meaning to ask you how you held up the other night," Blaine asked, hoping conversation might cause Santana to ease up on the gas. 

"I can hold my liquor, Blaine."

"That's not what I'm talking about. Did you talk?"

"I talk all the time. It's nothing but talk, talk, talk."

"So I'll take that as a no."

"You would be correct, sir." Santana gave him a little mock salute, then returned her hand to the wheel. "I didn't see much purpose in it, and apparently, neither did she." 

"Don't you think this would be a good time to put this behind you? To move on?" 

"Oh, I moved on a long time ago. I'm moving _just_ _fine_."

Blaine looked at her, a little bit exasperated, and more than a little bit sympathetic. He knew Santana well enough to know that she took life's shot harder than she let on. The fact of the matter was that there were chips in her Teflon facade and sometimes, the hurt stuck.

"Santana, is it worth it, really? Wouldn't it be better if the two of you just settled things?"

Santana stared straight ahead in silence for a beat, then reached over and cranked up the stereo.

****

They found a small crowd already congregated outside the stone-and-glass Studio Theatre of the Mondavi Center for the Performing Arts. Much of the Sonoma contingent was already there, along with several of the Napa winemakers and their teams.

As the other participants filed in to the theater, Blaine felt a tap on his shoulder. To his left stood Kurt, in a trim tailored suit that looked like his wardrobe from his first days in the valley, but that he hadn't worn in weeks. His voice had a conspiratorial tone. 

"How's she holding up?" 

"I could ask you the same thing," Blaine said. "She's edgy."

"She's always edgy."

"She's even edgier," Blaine said. "The ride over was a bit... tense."

"She's no better," Kurt said, looking in Quinn's direction. "She's either going to jump off a cliff or torch a small village. She's snapping at everyone; silent one minute, pretty much shouting the next."

"You're going to have to fill me in on the background of all this some day. I'm just on the periphery. I knew there was someone. I know she never really got past it. But I didn't know who until just recently."

Kurt shook his head slowly. "Having gone through this already in college, I can honestly say I'm not looking forward to a sequel." 

"They were like this in college?"

"They were inseparable in college," Kurt said. Blaine raised his eyebrows. Kurt nodded. "Then Q's career started to take off, and she met someone else and next thing anyone knew, it was war.

It didn't help matters that it was a man — or that she married him."

Blaine's mouth formed a silent "oh." It explained volumes about his guarded, caustic friend who only let people in under the most extraordinary of circumstances.

"The marriage lasted a grand total of 13 months," Kurt added with a shrug. "What do you say we lock them in a room and call it a death match?"

"Quinn wouldn't stand a chance," Blaine said, catching a glance of Santana, who was currently stalking the foyer with a look in her eye that suggested someone was about to get a piece of her mind.

"Don't be so sure. Beneath Quinn's calm exterior is some serious crazy." 

Kurt looked around the foyer for a moment, leaned in and lowered his voice. "Forget about them. How are you holding up?"

"Good. Fine. Looking forward to being done with this and getting back to work."

Kurt swallowed his smile, or tried. Blaine still rebelled against the event in his own small way, while embracing it for the sake of his colleagues, and Kurt found it completely endearing.

"You'll be a full-time winemaker again soon enough."

"Good. I don't mind playing dress-up, but I don't enjoy being put on display."

"You dress up well," Kurt said, biting his lip. "I haven't seen you like that before. You were a hit, and so was your wine.  And it was thoughtful what you did, bringing Diego."

"I'm not sure he would agree with you. He was there under duress, at least to start. I think he had a good time by the end of it. And he deserved to be there as much as I did, maybe more. If it wasn't for the fact that he didn't go to college, he'd probably have a bottle in this thing."

Their voices low and their bodies closer than they realized, they lost track of the space around them as they spoke.

"Well. Aren't you two looking cozy," Sebastian interrupted, rounding a corner of the room unnoticed and planting himself squarely between them, causing Blaine to freeze. 

"And aren't you looking reptilian," Kurt answered. "Please tell me you're not back for round two."

"I wish," he said to their backs as Kurt steered Blaine into the theater. 

****

Quinn walked alongside a docent leading a tour of the Studio Theater, the smaller of the two performance spaces at the Mondavi Center. Its modern, utilitarian space suited the tasting far better than the formality of the main stage, Quinn said. The Studio Theater could be stripped and set up in multiple configurations, allowing the event to have the feel of a dinner party while still maintaining traditional audience seating. 

A stage had been installed to the front of the room, with round dinner tables assembled on the floor. To either side, risers with theater seating were installed. 

Quinn asked the group to sit in the risers, and spoke to them from the floor, Kurt by her side.

"We want to thank all of you for joining us today. We just want to run through the evening so that everyone will know exactly what to expect," Quinn said.

Quinn outlined the timeline, the process, the expectations that _Taste_ had for the event, down to the dress code — cocktail, not black tie. 

Santana leaned over to Blaine and whispered. "Now she's telling us how to dress. I'll give you a hundred bucks if you show up in Levis." 

Blaine bit back a laugh.

"At this point, aren't we really just spectators? I really don't understand why we're doing this walkthrough," said the winemaker from Pillsbury Wines, a petite redhead. 

"Bingo!" Santana said, louder than she should have. Quinn shot her a piercing look 

"You're part of the show. The people who've bought tickets to this aren't just here to watch the judges sip wine. They want to meet the winemakers behind the wine."

"So now we're on display," Santana muttered.

"A little organization never hurt anyone," snapped a familiar voice that was used to barking orders. Sue Sylvester, president of Sylvester House, ran a winery with a reputation for being run with military precision.

"We want to make sure this goes off without a hitch. And considering how much some tables took advantage of the open bar the other night, we think it's in everyone's best interest to set down some ground rules," Quinn said.

Kurt looked to Blaine, and with the the tiniest shrug, tried to convey, _Not we. She. This was not my idea._ Blaine responded with a hint of an eye roll, and a little shake of the head. _I understand_.

Kurt glanced around the room, catching Sebastian's haughty expression, looking like his role in the event was a birthright. He also tried to keep track of how many times the Dalton winemaker's eyes drifted over to Blaine — and lost count.

He finally looked over to the Sonoma contingent again, and found Blaine looking right at him, unafraid to make eye contact. His hazel eyes didn't drift, not for a second, and Kurt allowed himself a brief, closed-mouth smile, then felt a second set of eyes on him.

He looked across the room again, and Sebastian was watching, and made a point to shift his focus to Blaine, then back once again to Kurt, his mouth twisting into a contorted smirk.

"We will be using the traditional 100-point scale," Quinn droned on. "But this is a streamlined competition, as you know.We are not judging individual varietals. It will be reds versus reds and whites versus whites. Each will be judged purely on its own individual merit versus the standard for that particular wine, be it a varietal or a blend. The highest overall score wins."

"Like the Westminster Dog Show. Now all we need is someone to prance us around the ring," Santana added.

Blaine elbowed her, and discreetly tried to shake his head 'no'.

It was too late.

Quinn had her trained in her sights, and leveled an icy stare in their direction. "Is there a problem, Ms. Lopez?"

It was the first time Quinn had addressed or acknowledged her since she'd arrived on the west coast, and her words dripped with cynicism.

 _Oh god, here it comes,_ Kurt thought.

"Not now, Santana. Not here," Blaine whispered. 

"A problem?" Santana said, full voiced.

"Please, Santana, don't," Blaine said, turning his face to Santana's ear.

"Let me think about that..."

 _Oh shit,_ Blaine thought.

"I think that perhaps we could have done a better job with meeting prep today. We know you're all busy people. Quinn's just very passionate about making sure that everyone looks good," Kurt said, intervening, hoping to defuse what was about to become an explosive confrontation.

Blaine cradled Santana's elbow, and continued to plead his case in hushed tones.

"Santana, you don't want to do this. Not here, not now. Think back to when you asked me to do this. It was about saving face. It was about protecting our reputation, and showing that we're as good as anybody. The big guns versus the little guys. Santana, _please_. Do you really want to pick a fight right now?"

She glared. She stared. She took a deep breath, all while fixing her focus directly at Quinn.

"For the record —"

"I know," Blaine said. "I know. But let's get through this first, okay?"

"Got your dog back on a leash, Anderson?" Sebastian's voice drifted down from behind him. "Personally, I could watch this _all day_. 

Santana finally turned toward Blaine.

"Do you want to kill him or should I do the honors?"

****

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks again to iconicklaine for helping me see the shape of things when my eyes get foggy, and to sillygleekt for knowing how to apply eye drops. And as always, thanks to buckeyegrrl for seeing this story in pictures.
> 
> An extra note: I hope to post a bonus chapter this week. It's written. It's in sillygleekt's hands. It's also a bit complex, and may lead to some lengthy discussions. But if it can be done, be looking for it around mid-week. Otherwise, it will be posted on the usual Sunday schedule.
> 
> And finally, a question. I've collected a lot of photos that I use for inspiration or to be able to describe a certain site. I'm thinking about posting an appropriate picture at the end of each chapter that helps illustrate either a location or character in that chapter. Thoughts?
> 
> Thanks for reading and for all the kind comments, everyone. And for those of who who've been holding your breath, and you know who you are, you'll be able to exhale very, very soon. <3


	16. Chapter 15

By midnight, music was already rocking the house. The usual nighttime symphony of crickets and coyotes at Rhapsody was replaced by a thumping bass line. They were on a throwback binge: the Rolling Stones, David Bowie, some Talking Heads.

There was booze and bodies bouncing to the music — _who decided the Pogo was a good idea?_ — and Blaine loosened his tie, leaned back against the wall and smiled. He hadn't planned this impromptu party of boisterous winemakers, but he welcomed it.

****

_Hours earlier, the Studio Theater at the Mondavi Center was filled to capacity, a sell-out. The winemakers and their entourages, the executives and publicists and families, were seated at prime tables near the front, where they could been seen by the audience in the theater seats and by the media, which was located near the center back — a good angle for visuals but far enough away from the action to stay out of trouble._

Taste _Magazine's corporate VIP table was front and center, located near the small staircase leading up to the stage, and flooded with enough soft light to allow everyone to see Quinn, Kurt and the corporate Powers That Be behind the publication._

_Quinn was radiant, in her element, dressed in rose silk with upswept hair, a modern-day Grace Kelly. Kurt, simple but stylish in a trim cut black Thom Browne suit, was her best accessory._

_The lights dimmed, and an acoustic guitar recording filled the air, "_ [ _I Heard It Through the Grapevine_ ](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jAF29V6B3c0) _", accompanying a short film documenting the history of the Judgement at Paris and the California wine industry today._

****

Santana threw her head back and laughed — a deep, persistent, raucous howlthat enveloped the room as she danced, twirling and bouncing from one partner to the next.

She didn't have a partner at all, Blaine realized. _Everyone_ was her partner. She danced with the entire room, bottle of sparkling wine — from a Sonoma winery, _thankyouverymuch_ — held aloft.

Blaine wasn't sure if he had ever seen her so demonstrably, publicly happy, but it was a welcome change of pace from the surly Santana he had spent so much time with over the past week.

****

_One by one, the 10 judges walked to the stage: the sommelier from a five star New York restaurant, the Four Seasons' wine director, the wine columnist for the San Francisco Chronicle and another from a prominent French wine magazine, the chief buyer for a wine brokerage and the department head of the UC Davis Department of Viticulture and Enology, among others._

_They stepped up, formally attired and solemn-faced, as Quinn introduced them. They sat at assigned seats at a table nearly as long as the stage itself, far enough apart to prevent them from comparing notes._

****

Diego found what he was looking for in Blaine's personal wine cellar, the one just off the kitchen, behind an inconspicuous door and down a narrow staircase. He picked up the magnum of _Appassionato_ that Blaine suggested he open for the crowd of friends and colleagues, hiked back up the stairs and locked the door behind him.

He opened the oversized bottle in the kitchen and carried it out to the impromptu living room bar.

He poured two glasses and carried them, and the keys, to Blaine's comfortable corner perch.

"A toast," he said, handing Blaine one of the glasses, and the keys, which were swiftly pocketed.  "Te aventaste, güey. ¡Te lo mereces!" *

A broad grin swept over his face, and in a rare moment of open emotion, he pulled Blaine into a bear hug, lifting him briefly off the floor.

****

 _Sebastian Smythe sat, silent and motionless, watching the proceedings, his face etched in concentration. His look was almost nonchalant, except for an occasional tell: the brief bite of his lower lip as the judges inspected and sampled the wines._  

_At the next table to the left, Blaine sat with his elbows on the table, fingers folded in front of his face. Every few minutes, he leaned over and whispered something to Santana, who would nod, or look around the room, but rarely responded._

_And when he thought no one was paying attention, he would look over to the VIP table at the center front near the stage._

****

A Lincoln Town Car pulled slowly up the drive at Rhapsody, maneuvering around a waiting shuttle bus, coming to a stop in front of the house.

Its passenger sat for a moment, giving instructions to the driver, then clambered out without assistance.

Moments later, the sedan left, a light cloud of dust in its wake. 

****

_The judges tasted each wine in unison, without identification. The audience was likewise kept in the dark about the wines being judged, on the off-chance that someone would yell out a name._

_After each sample, each panelist filled out a form printed on white linen card stock, providing a score of up to 100 points and brief comments supporting it._

_An assistant then walked the line, collecting each card ceremoniously, and delivering each collection to a waiting team of accountants who tabulated the results._

****

Late to the now-raucous party, he knocked on the front door to no avail — it could not be heard over the stereo, the singing, the stomping, the shouting. He opened the door, hinges squeaking, but that also went unnoticed. 

He poked his head in just far enough to see the living room, which had taken on the appearance of a high-end frat party.

Revelers were gathered in a circle, singing along — badly— to Aretha Franklin's "[Respect,](http://open.spotify.com/track/645sb91864KTMIUycnRUYr)"  clutching each other with one arm while raising their glasses with the other.

****

_Twenty wines and a seeming eternity of judging later, the assistant approached Quinn and handed her six golden envelopes._

_Quinn stepped up to the podium, which was adorned on either side by pillars holding two ornate Tiffany bowls destined for the two winners of the Taste Challenge. A line of 20 unopened bottles representing the finalists were staged on the judging tables off to her side. Next to them were set velvet boxes holding gold, silver and bronze medals._

_Envelopes lined up in front of her on the podium, Quinn began her closing remarks: thanks to the judges, wineries and facilities that made the event possible. Gratitude for the dedicated followers of_ Taste _Magazine, special thanks to her one-in-a-million wine critic and event organizer._

_Then she got down to business, explaining that she would announce the top three in both categories in reverse order. A complete list of scores and comments for all 20 wines would be available in press packets immediately after the event, she said._

_"For the competition for white wines, in third place, with an average score of 94, the_ Allegrezza _Roussanne from Rhapsody Vineyards and Wine. Blaine Anderson, owner and winemaker."_

 _Quinn's stage assistant moved to the table, and placed a bronze medal around the neck of the bottle of_ Allegrezza _._

_Blaine rose from his seat, collecting hugs and handshakes and congratulations from his companions at the table. He stepped to the podium, where Quinn shook his hand, presented him with a bronze medal and the gold envelope, and posed for a photograph._

_Napa claimed the silver medal, earning a 95 overall with the St. James Estate's acclaimed 2009 Reserve Chardonnay, a woody white that the judges commended for its richness and depth._

_The real surprise of the white wine division was saved for last, when the Tibideux Estate Vineyards' delicate 2010 Coastal Sauvignon Blanc outpaced a field of Napa competitors with bigger names and bolder flavors, with an average overall score of 97. The victory was all the more sweet for Sonoma as Carmen Tibideux, the winery's reserved owner, was one of the first women to run a commercial winery in California._

****

He stood in the foyer for a few moments, taking in the scene, before he was recognized by a drunk and jubilant Santana.

"Hummel!"

She ran over to him, took him up in an unwieldy embrace, and planted a sloppy kiss on his lips. 

"You need a drink."

"So it would seem," he said, scanning the room.

Santana gave him a sly smile. "Over there, Hummel," she said, angling him toward the far side of the room. 

Kurt navigated his way across the space, through the throng of boisterous and progressively drunken Sonomans. One handed him a drink. Several shook his hand. A few hugged him.  

In the far corner, smiling and relatively sober, stood Blaine. He was talking to friends, but he focused his concentration on the dark-suited figure making its way across the room. He excused himself, and took a step, maybe two, and stopped. Throughout it all, his eyes remained fixed on Kurt's.

He could see the rise and fall of Blaine's chest, and how his mouth opened slightly as if needing to take in more air.  

The room was a swirl of color and sound and light, an obstacle course of distractions, but Kurt remained focused on one spot, one person, one objective. It felt like the longest 25 feet of his life. 

****

_Quinn cleared her throat._

_"And now, the reds. The judges let us know that the competitors represented a particularly elite selection of wines, and that each deserves commendation, but there were a few that truly stood out among the most rarified on vintages._  

_"The judges recognized our third place wine as unusually complex, blending soft floral notes with a lingering finish reminiscent of dark plum. In third place, with an average overall score of 95, the 2009 Rosedale Vineyards Pinot Noir."_

_Blaine grinned. He looked to the Taste VIP table and caught a side glance from Kurt, who shot him  a smug look suggesting that yes, he knew how to pick 'em._

_"In second place is a traditional Napa Meritage that judges saluted for a heady blend of the very best Cabernet, Cab Franc, Malbec and Merlot. The wine presents a strong structure and a concentrated palate with deep, rich tannins."_

_Sebastian frowned._

_"The judges noted the strong presence of dark-fleshed fruit, with particular notes of black currant, black cherry and blackberries, with hints of leather and clove on the nose."_

_The frown became a scowl._

_"In second place, with an overall average of 96, the 2009 Dalton Meritage."_ _Sebastian's acceptance of his award for second-best in the elite field could best be described a "grudging"._

_"And finally, a note from our judges about our gold medalist for the reds," Quinn said, reading from  a card. "'If we had been charged with deciding a single winner for the Taste Challenge, this wine would have easily claimed the prize. When others look to make a strong statement with dramatic taste profiles, this blend exercises restraint and the art of subtlety to classic effect. Its texture is velvety and its color a lush, deep red. Its taste? An unexpected and delicate blend of dark berries and florals, with a hint of sweet smoke on the nose. Its finish is supple and lingering with perfectly balanced tannins. In a word? Unforgettable.' "_

_Santana turned to Blaine, who stared wide-eyed at the stage. "It's time to snap out of it," she whispered. "I think we both know what's coming."_

_"With a remarkable overall average of 99, the champion red is from Sonoma..."_

_Blaine looked at Santana, and squeezed her hand._

_"... from Rhapsody Vineyards and Wine, the 2009_ Sotto Voce _Syrah blend."_

****

Kurt set down the drink and found his way to Blaine, locking eyes until they stood face-to-face. He shifted his focus down the hall, and without a word, he took Blaine's hand, fingers entwined, and led him away from the noisy crowd.

"We might need another bottle or two," Blaine said, his voice shaky. 

A hint of a smile crested Kurt's face. He nodded, just slightly, just enough for Blaine to see. He backed down the hall, leading Blaine by his fingertips. They reached the cellar door, and Kurt rotated, turning Blaine like a partner in a waltz so that he was now alongside the door.

Blaine tried to lean in to him, as if to embrace, but Kurt stepped back slightly shook his head as if to say _Not here_.

 

Blaine reached into his pocket, pulled out the key Diego had given him earlier and opened the door. Then he reversed roles, taking Kurt's hand to lead him down the narrow staircase to the darkened wine cellar.

He flicked a wall switch to light the stairs, casting the rest of the space in soft shades of amber.  Each step down revealed more of the stone-walled room, more utilitarian than decorative, lined floor-to-ceiling with racked bottles of wine. An alcove built into one wall doubled as a bar, and in the center stood a wine barrel table and two chairs.

Kurt took both of Blaine's hands in his and guided him across the room, their own private dance,  until Blaine’s back rested against the wall. He stopped, eased in close and let his face bloom into a full smile.

"I just wanted to stop by and say congratulations," he said. And then he leaned forward, tilted his head, and pressed their lips together. 

Blaine's breath hitched. He opened his mouth for air and Kurt pressed for more. He licked at Blaine's lower lip, a request. And with that access granted, the flood gates opened.

Blaine let go of Kurt's hands and reached around his waist, pulling him close. He cupped Kurt's jaw with his other hand, trying to pull, hold, keep Kurt _right there_ as he deepened the kiss.

They pulled and pressed and touched and kissed and kissed some more, hands moving in erratic rhythm to map the muscles they had only allowed themselves to consider, but not touch, for weeks.

Kurt ran a palm up Blaine's chest, fumbling briefly with the buttons on his shirt. As Blaine leaned his head back, Kurt let his hand guide his mouth, up Blaine's neck, pausing to suck at his Adam's Apple. He touched his face with a feather-light touch, a trail of wet kisses not far behind, until he slid a hand through Blaine's hair, grabbing and pulling to bring his face back in for more. 

Blaine pulled up, his breathing labored, and slammed his head against the wall 

"Ow!" he gasped.

Kurt opened his eyes, breathing hard, and laughed. "Sorry!"

"Don't be," Blaine said, pulling at Kurt's tie to reel him back in. He kissed at Kurt's jawline, nipping lightly behind his ear. He buried himself in Kurt's neck, feeling his own breath against his face as it reflected off Kurt's heated skin. 

"It feels like it's taken us forever to get here," Kurt murmured.

"It's like wine, Kurt. Sometimes you have to set it aside and let it mature, and it's just that much better when you finally uncork it."

"A wine metaphor? Now?" Kurt whispered in his ear, as he nosed along Blaine's cheek. "You know, the last few weeks have been..."

Blaine pulled back, met Kurt's glance and smiled. "...challenging," he said, finishing Kurt's thought.

" _Impossible_ ," Kurt said, exhaling on the word, purging weeks of frustration. "Want you," he whispered, his voice deep and ragged.

Blaine nodded, and ran his fingers along Kurt's neck, to the knot on his tie, wriggling it loose and unbuttoning the top of Kurt's shirt.

Kurt could already feel arousal stirring deep. He moved forward, melting into Blaine, folding his arms around his neck and aligning their bodies, locking Blaine's thigh between his legs. He could feel Blaine growing hard as he rolled his hips forward.

Blaine responded with a moan, and with hands grasping for skin, one running under Kurt's jacket to pull at his shirt, the other sliding under the waistband of his slacks.

That's when they heard the click, followed creak of a door.

"I take it everything's looking up down there?" Santana called down to them, laughing. "For the record, the sudden disappearance of our host has been duly noted." 

Then she walked away, leaving a trail of laughter in her wake and the door to the cellar gaping open.

"Oh god," Blaine huffed, "house full of drunks."

"Your room?" Kurt offered.

"Right now? With everyone partying right under the bedroom? I think the chances of us getting any privacy are pretty remote. If Santana stuck her nose in here, imagine what she'd do with a bedroom."

"Barn?" 

"Cold and smelly, and not comfortable. Your hotel?"

"That's at least half an hour away," Kurt said, beginning to sound defeated. He ran a hand through his ruffled hair, exasperated.

"I want this. _We_ want this. But you have a house full of guests. You're the host _and_ the guest of honor. This is a big night, and they're here to celebrate you."

"But..." 

Kurt silenced him with a prolonged kiss.

"I can't let you bail out on your own party. We've waited this long,” he said, resting their foreheads together. “What's one more night?"

Blaine pulled his hands back, supporting himself as he leaned back into the wall and exhaled.

He was going to need a few minutes before he could head back upstairs.

****

They rejoined the party after a while, Blaine finally accepting the attention he had been casually avoiding earlier in the evening. He sang along with the music, got pulled on to the impromptu dance floor where he followed Santana's lead and danced with everyone and no one.

Kurt hung back from the group, enjoying both the party and the view, but keeping himself slightly distant from it. He would smile and drink and sing along, but stayed firmly rooted to the side of the room. Blaine could see it, and would make a point to catch his eye frequently to exchange a knowing look.

Soon, someone started slipping songs into the mix they deemed "thematically appropriate," and heavy on P!nk: [”Get This Party Started”](http://open.spotify.com/track/12fPYntS7MBJKdZkF4Juzm),["Sober"](http://open.spotify.com/track/2JRgvTMX6fZI6g9p3cUWxR) _,_[“Raise Your Glass”](http://open.spotify.com/track/4zzL7ATa95g88MwzuQ1v8G).

The last one tipped the scales, and found Blaine in the center of a circle of singing, dancing and and drinking. Off to the side he could see Kurt, covering his mouth and doubling over in laughter. Still singing, Blaine bounced over to him, took his hand and drew him into the circle.

"No hiding!" Blaine laughed, diving back into song, still holding Kurt's hand, ensuring that he had a dance partner for the rest of the night.

They stayed close from that point on, fingers tips grazing each other, hips accidentally bumping as one walked past the other. They grew bolder as the night wore on, swaying together, resting a chin on a shoulder, with little thought to whether anyone saw or cared. 

As the music quieted and slowed, Blaine pulled Kurt to the center of the room, settled his arms around his neck, and swayed to the music, settling his face into Kurt's neck and breathing him in.

"I really did win tonight," he whispered.

Kurt closed his eyes and pulled Blaine close.

"We both did."

Santana, watching from a spot on the floor where she had taken up residence after _one last round_ of drinks, shook her head and declared the party over. 

"Troops! Time to drag your sorry asses back on the party bus."

Blaine stepped over to her and helped her to her feet. She clung to him for a moment. 

"See? That coach rental wasn't such a bad idea, was it? We will safely pour these sorry slobs off at their doorsteps, and you'll have your house to yourself," she said with a wink. "Enjoy."

He watched the coach drive away, his now-weary body supported by a patio pillar, when Kurt slid in behind him, wrapping his arms around his chest and nestling his face into the back of Blaine's neck.

"Your house looks like a war zone," he said, kissing he back of his ear. "And you look like you're about to fall asleep on your feet."

Blaine rested his weight against Kurt and nodded.

"Mmm. The mess can wait."

****

 

* _Footnote:_ This translates to "You really threw yourself into it, dude. You earned this," which was about as close to “You kicked their ass,” as I could get to while making the translation work.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks as always to Buckeyegrrl for the wonderful cover art, iconicklaine/klaineaddict for helping navigate some treacherous waters and sillygleekt for seeing this chapter through to smooth sailing. Thanks especially to all of you for reading Sotto Voce. It's been quite a ride for me, and I'm beside myself with the lovely notes I've received about it.


	17. Chapter 16

Kurt reached to pull a sheet, a blanket, _anything_ over his head, shielding himself from the silver shards of daylight crossing the bed, but the blankets wouldn't budge. He tugged again, and a groan rose from under the sheets.

He opened his eyes to see Blaine settling in on his side, one arm tucked tightly into the blankets, falling back to sleep with the softest of snores. 

He smiled to himself, letting his eyes close again and setting his mind adrift across the past 12 hours.

The party had ended just hours earlier, and Blaine had scarcely been able to drag himself up the stairs. The stress, the schedule, the liquor had all taken a toll. He had tried to pick up where they left off in the wine cellar. They had reached the bedroom and he had kissed Kurt, pulling him to the bed and fumbling with his shirt buttons — and had crashed. The moment Blaine had hit the mattress, the weight of exhaustion had overtaken his posture, his eyes, his voice.

"I think what you need right now is sleep," Kurt had said, kissing him lightly. "And to be honest, me, too."

Blaine had whimpered at the words, but was already well on the brink of nodding off.

"Stay with me?" he'd murmured.

Kurt had nodded, placing a wisp of a kiss on Blaine's lips. "Of course." 

Then he'd brought his forehead to rest against Blaine's, a moment that in some ways had felt more intimate to him than anything that could have followed, as if he had finally exhaled a breath he had held for months.

"Let's get you out of these and get some sleep," he'd said, pulling a pliant Blaine up from the bed to a seated position and helping him from his shirt. "Where should I put this?"

"Toss it," Blaine had mumbled.  

Kneeling at the side of the bed, Kurt had turned and tossed the shirt to a nearby chair. He'd untied and removed Blaine's shoes, then his socks. Then he'd looked up at him, a little self-conscious. "Maybe I should leave the rest to you."

He'd stood up and removed his own jacket, shirt, slacks and shoes, draping the suit carefully on the back of the chair. Standing in Blaine's bedroom dressed in nothing but an undershirt and briefs, he'd focused on keeping his breathing in check as he took Blaine's pants from his hands and folded them neatly, setting them on top of his own.

Blaine had watched him silently throughout, a slight blush dotting his cheeks. He'd finally looked down, biting his lower lip. 

"I should have have a new toothbrush in here you can use." Moments later, they had stood side-by-side in the bathroom, brushing teeth, washing faces, sharing a moment of routine domesticity that had been so utterly new that they couldn't help but sneak peeks at each other every moment or two. 

The thought had crossed Kurt's mind that maybe he should challenge sleep to a duel, but he'd  known that exhaustion currently had him outmatched. When they'd finally climbed into bed, it already had felt so familiar, as if they had instinctively known which side of the mattress belonged to whom as they curled their bodies into a comfortable knot.

They'd held each other through what remained of the night, Kurt wrapped around Blaine's back, his chin burrowed into his shoulder.

But with sunlight now spilling freely into the room, Kurt gave in to the day.

"You awake?" Kurt whispered.

"Mmm-nope."

Kurt peeked under covers, craning his neck just a little.

"You _lie_."

Blaine's eyes were shut, but his face was beaming. "I _might_ be waking up," he said.

Kurt kissed the bridge of his nose, and dropped his hand under the covers, slowly tracing a path along Blaine's hip. He ran his palm in soft circles between his waist and upper thigh, then dipped his fingers between the elastic waistband of his briefs and the soft skin underneath. He could hear Blaine's breath shift, its tempo increasing with each completed circle.

Kurt grazed his ear with his tongue.

"How about now?" he murmured.

Blaine sighed, and shifted his body back toward Kurt.

Kurt ran his hand along Blaine's chest, drifting to his nipples, where he started again: circle, circle, circle. 

His eyes still closed, feigning sleep, Blaine let out a high-pitched whine.

"Are you ticklish, Blaine Anderson?" 

Kurt could hear a muted laugh. Moments later, Blaine rolled up, over and on top of him, pinning him to the mattress. Blaine grabbed Kurt's hands and gently pulled them above his head. 

Then he stopped, and gazed down at Kurt, his demeanor shifting from light to something else entirely. 

"Mmm, I have morning breath," Kurt protested.

"I don't care," Blaine said, kissing him and pointedly rolling his hips into Kurt's.

Kurt wriggled his hands free and ran them down Blaine's back, intermittently pulling at his undershirt and grabbing his ass. As if taking a hint, Blaine pulled back and peeled the light cotton tank off, throwing it across the room. He dove back to Kurt's body, tonguing his way south.

"Need to get rid of this," he mumbled, pulling at Kurt's t-shirt and yanking it over his head, tossing it near his own far-flung undershirt. "Better." 

He kissed his way down Kurt's chest, his tongue lingering on one nipple, then the other. His hands wandered further, skimming soft skin until they reach the waistband of his briefs.

Blaine lifted his head enough to look into Kurt's eyes, pupils blown and bright, a silent question that Kurt answered without hesitation.

" _Please_."

Kurt lifted his hips off the bed, but Blaine didn't try to undress him right away. Instead he lingered, using his index finger to trace a delicate line along Kurt's rapidly hardening cock. He eased his body down, mapping Kurt's chest, his stomach, his waist with his mouth.

He finally kissed his way down the soft cotton, tonguing at Kurt's cock through the fabric. Blaine breathed him in, and groaned.

"Blaine, _please_." 

"Mmmm. Such good manners," Blaine murmured, grinning into his words, reaching up to finally remove the gray cotton underwear.

"So... well-mannered is a turn on?"

"You have no idea," Blaine said, setting his mouth on Kurt's flushed cock, kissing the shaft, licking at the slit before finally settling over the head. He caressed the base with one hand. With the other, he reached for Kurt's hand, pulling it around and holding it tight and close to Kurt's chest. 

He moved slowly, deliberately, as he took Kurt fully into his mouth. Kurt moaned in equal parts  happiness and frustration.

"Blaine, is this you sleepy or you trying to drag this out?"

"Mmmm," Blaine hummed, sending shivers through Kurt's now alert body, and pulling off with a kiss to his head. "It's me happy — and sleepy."

Kurt twisted his spine, arching, his free hand gripping into Blaine's curls. "You're gonna kill me doing that."

"In a good way?"

" _Blaine_..."

"Yes?" Blaine said, slowing stroking Kurt's balls while making a wet trail of kisses from cock to navel.

Kurt's moan came out more like a squeak bubbling from his gut. That did it. Blaine erupted in fits of giggles.

"That's it! You're awake. No more of this sleepy routine — _Shit_! — Come on. Don't want to come yet. Not 'til you..."

"Mmm-hmmm..."

"Blaine, please..."

Blaine nosed his way up, kissing up Kurt's chest and jaw, to his ear. 

"What do you want? Tell me what you want."

"Want you. Want you before I..."

"Kurt, I wasn't exactly prepared for this."

"My suit..."

"What?"

"Jacket. Inside pocket." Kurt was panting out his words by this point, and if he hadn't wanted Blaine as much as he did, if he hadn't waited so long for this moment, he might very well have killed him for dragging this out, Kurt thought.

"Just get it, please."

Blaine got off the bed and rummaged through Kurt's jacket that had been so neatly draped on the chair. He pulled out a chain of four condoms, the foil packets still connected. Blaine waved them over his head in a victory salute and tossed them on the bed.

"And the other pocket..."

Blaine checked again, and pulled out several rectangular foil packs.

"Lube. In convenient travel packs? Did you come here last night with the sole intention of seducing me, Mr. Hummel?" he said with a wicked grin.

"Well, not the _sole_ intent," he said, pulling at the perforation between condom wrappers. "But it was a high priority."

Blaine leaned in, kissing his neck. "Four condoms? Kurt Hummel is goal-oriented."

"Or an optimist. _Come here_."

Kurt grabbed him by the back of the neck to draw him close, pressing his tongue to his mouth in a rough preview of things to come. He ran his hands down Blaine's back and into his briefs, sliding them down his thighs far enough for Blaine to kick them off. 

"How do you want..."

"Like this. Just like this. I want to see you," Kurt huffed. 

The words stifled Blaine's giddiness. He simply nodded, tracing Kurt's cheek with his hand as he reached over for a pillow to place under Kurt's hips. He cupped his face and kissed him, slowly, deeply, then reached for one of the tiny packets he had dropped on the bed. He broke the kiss only for a moment, to bite and rip open the little packet of lube.

"I can never open these damn things," he said, rolling lube between his fingers. He inched his body forward, pressing against Kurt so that his legs would spread wide, then reached down, rubbing, massaging, reaching further and progressively deeper to Kurt's vocal groans and sighs.

Kurt arched his back into each small thrust of Blaine's hand, shutting his eyes, gripping the pillow with one hand and flailing blindly with the other.

"Oh god, where'd it go?" 

"Right there, by your shoulder."

Kurt opened his eyes, found the condom packet and tore it open, reaching for Blaine, stroking him a few times before rolling it on. 

"Kurt?"

"Now. Blaine please, _now_."

Blaine gingerly pulled his fingers out, drawing a deep inhale from Kurt, and brought them face-to-face. They locked eyes, and without shifting his gaze, Blaine eased himself in.

He took his time, settled in and waited, caressing Kurt's face with lips and nose and hand until he got the go ahead, the simple nod, the sign that said, _move, now_.

Slowly, their bodies began to rock together, picking up a gradual rhythm. Blaine moved cautiously, gently at first, a slow dance between new lovers. But with Kurt's urging, the " _Go, please, yes, more, harder, just right there—_ " they moved faster, a synchronous rapid rhythm pushed closer to the brink.

" _Please_."

"Tell me what you need. What do you need?"

"Just _more. Please_."

"Here, your leg," Blaine said, lifting Kurt's left leg up and on to his shoulder as Kurt did all he could to wrap his right leg around Blaine's waist.

With that, Blaine picked up the pace, thrusting repeatedly until he was slapping their bodies together, driving deep inside Kurt. It was enough to tip him over the edge — the tight, desperate pull in his stomach twisting itself into knots.

"Close. Oh god, I'm not going to last. Kurt..."

Kurt grabbed his ass, controlling the tempo. "Give me your hand. Just touch me." 

Blaine gripped Kurt's cock as he plunged in again and again, grinding deep to Kurt's desperate urging. With one last push, he slammed their bodies together, shaking and gasping through his orgasm. Kurt wasn't far behind, taking Blaine's hand in his to speed up the tempo on his cock until he pulsed hard across their stomachs.

Blaine stayed with him throughout, setting a gentle rhythm even as he softened to help bring Kurt down from the high. He finally pulled up and eased himself out. He raised up on his elbows and looked down at Kurt.

"I wish you could see yourself right now," he said.

"What? A sweaty, sticky mess?"

"Sweaty, maybe. Sticky?" He looked down between them, "Definitely. But my god, you're beautiful."

Kurt brought his hand to his face, as if to hide behind it, but Blaine pulled it away and sealed his mouth with a kiss. 

"No, there's no denying that. You're stunning." He exhaled and looked up and around the room. "It feels good to finally say that."

Kurt pulled him back down to the mattress and rolled him onto his side. They curled in, face-to-face, breathing in the moment.

"I can't believe we got here," Kurt said.

"Why? I thought we were kind of on the brink for a while."

"You hated me when you met me."

"Oh, no," Blaine pinched his face in embarrassment. "I was such an ass."

"A cute ass."

"Thank you," Blaine said, rolling his eyes. "I was a jerk, but I didn't hate you. I hated the idea of you, and I hated the fact that I was so attracted to you. I didn't expect that."

"Oh? Pray, do tell, kind sir."

"Now you're just fishing..."

" _Trawling_..."

Blaine pulled himself closer.

"You're handsome."

Kiss.

"You're talented."

Kiss. Kiss.

"You kill me when you wear those black jeans."

"Oh? Which ones?"

Kiss.

"You know which ones," Blaine said, his voice a low murmur, his lips skimming over Kurt's neck.

"Skinnies?"

Kiss.

"Of course."

Kiss.

"The Sevens."

"Mmmm. That would be the pair."

Kiss. Kiss.

"I just about have to paint those on. 

"I _know_. They're a distraction."

Kiss.

"I'll have to wear them more often."

"Mmmm. You have my vote."

"You're distracting too, you know," Kurt said, playing with an errant curl. Blaine responded with a half-hearted eye roll. "That first day out on the road. I remember every detail."

"Ugh. I wish you wouldn't."

"I'm not kidding! When a guy drives straight out of a Ralph Lauren ad and into your life, you tend to remember it."

"Oh, please." Blaine turned his face toward the pillow, trying to hide the watercolored blush creeping across his cheeks.

"Mmm-hmm. Fashionable outdoorsman with his aviators and his denim shirt and hot angry eyes  and that damn truck."

"I love my truck — wait. Was I _that_ angry?"

Kurt tucked the curl back into place, and kissed him.

"I was talking about your eyes, which are hypnotic, by the way, but yes, you were that angry. We've already agreed that you were an ass that day. Moving on..."

"But not now," Blaine said, doing a little fishing of his own.

Kurt leaned in, nearly cheek-to-cheek, and kissed his temple. "You've redeemed yourself."

They nestled in, lingering longer than either could track, looking into each other's eyes, occasionally drifting off.

"You think we could just lock ourselves in here and never leave?" Kurt asked, softly tracing Blaine's jaw with his finger, migrating to his lower lip.

"Never?"

"Well, we might need food at some point. But just the day, a day closed off from the world?"

"I think we could manage that," Blaine said, his lips seeking out Kurt's finger, kissing it softly. "No one's working today, at least not here. What about you? Do you need to see Quinn?"

"Nope. She left explicit instructions to be left alone today. Spa day, I think."

"So there's nothing on your business calendar?"

"Nope."

"Your social calendar?"

"I'm all yours."

"I like the sound of that," Blaine said, a grin spreading across his face. "But maybe we should clean up first? A shower? Clean sheets?"

"Or we could mess them up a little more first," Kurt said, rolling Blaine onto his back.

Kurt kissed him, deeply this time, dropping the pretense of gentility in favor of tongue and heat and want. 

He stopped suddenly, and lifted his head.

"You're right."

"Hmm?"

"Shower. Toothpaste."

"That bad?"

"Come on. Shower, then sex," Kurt said, clambering from the bed and extending his hand.

Blaine squeezed his eyes shut and grimaced. "Not fair, Hummel."

Kurt looked Blaine up and down, and raised an eyebrow in appreciation of the tented sheet. He leaned in to whisper in Blaine's ear.

"Okay, shower _and_ sex," he said, grabbing two stray little packets from the bed.

He took Blaine's hand in his and pulled gently, drawing him out of bed and leading him to the master bath — an airy, gabled room of stone and light and wooden floors with espresso stain in contrast to white wooden cabinets. 

"You design this?" Kurt asked, kissing behind Blaine's ear.

"Sort of."

"If I had a tub like that in my apartment, I might not ever get out."

"You'd be very pruny. Bath or shower?"

"Right now? Shower."

Blaine turned on the water in the glass-encased stall, building a small cloud of steam while they brushed their teeth.

Kurt pulled him into the shower, squeezing bath gel into Blaine's hands, then his own. It may have served the technical purpose of cleanliness, but it was mainly an excuse for hands to roam and explore: a chest, a cock, a spine, an ass. 

He built a thin layer of suds across Blaine's skin, wrapped him in his arms and twirled him toward the steady stream of hot water, giving him another excuse to run his hands from face to shoulder to hip as he washed the soap away.

Kurt's hands directed him one way, then the other, turning so he could concentrate on Blaine's back with hand and tongue, then guiding him around again so mouth could meet mouth.

He pulled Blaine close, and pulled his hand around, drifting down from stomach to inch through the dark trail of hair.

"Kurt..." Blaine couldn't finish a sentence or a thought as he felt his need build.

"I'm right here," Kurt said, dipping his tongue into that tiny spot, the one between Blaine's ear and his jaw, that he had already discovered had a way of eliciting a series of soft, babbling moans. "Come here."

He turned Blaine toward the wall and wrapped his hand around his length, nipping at the base of Blaine's neck.

"Kurt... Would you? Do you? _Please_."

Kurt bit his lip, just for a moment, remembering Sebastian's taunting words. He had been right about one thing: Blaine was a babbler, murmuring and muttering incomprehensible and absolutely wonderful sounds of pleasure. 

"You're going to have to add a verb before I can make heads or tails of that," Kurt whispered in his ear.

Blaine groaned in frustration.

" _Fuck_."

"That'll do. And yes, absolutely."

Kurt reached for the packet he'd brought along into the shower, tearing it open and pouring some lube into his hand. He wrapped an arm around Blaine, placing his hand flat against his chest, resting his cheek to his shoulder. 

And then his fingers were inside him, one drawing a sigh, two eliciting a " _yes_ ," and three inciting a load moan and a demand for _more, now_. 

Behind a tear of foil and a slide of latex, Kurt pushed in. He aimed for slow and gentle. Blaine would have none of it. Forehead pressed against the slate shower stall, Blaine gritted out his wants.

"Dammit Kurt. Just fuck me."

"Somebody's pushy."

" _Kurt_..." 

 _Fine_ , Kurt thought. He pulled back and nearly out, then slammed his body back into Blaine's. He gave Blaine exactly what he asked for, what he demanded: a rapid, unrelenting pace. 

"Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck..."

"Vocabulary, Blaine," Kurt blurted out, hardly able to speak himself.

"Oh, god... Kurt... _Fuck_!"

Kurt adjusted his angle and slathered Blaine's neck with sloppy kisses. He let the hand that had been cemented across Blaine's heart drop, tugging and twisting and pulling until Blaine couldn't take it anymore.

" _Shit_!"

"That's it, let it go, let it go."

Driving himself back, Blaine convulsed against Kurt's waiting chest, spilling across his hand and the stone wall of the shower. 

Kurt waited out his orgasm as long as possible, supporting Blaine as he came down from his high, then picking up speed again — a rapid succession of jolting thrusts, unable to quickly catch his release.

"God, Kurt. _Come on already_ ," Blaine said, at this point over-sensitive and utterly exhausted. 

His building laughter at Blaine's whining finally triggered it. With a last, labored push, Kurt drove into him, coming deep inside. He rested his head against Blaine's shoulder and tried to calm his erratic breathing 

With a kiss to Blaine's jaw, he pulled out and peeled himself free of the condom. He steered him silently back to the flow of water, rinsing them off and shutting the shower off.

Blaine turned back toward him, looking a little dazed, and landed a sloppy kiss.

"Hey. 

"Hey," Kurt said. "So, somebody's got a serious case of potty mouth."

"Only when inspired."

Blaine stepped out of the shower and grabbed two towels when he paused, seemingly struck by a moment of inspiration.

"So, how much time do you think you have left in your swanky digs over at Bardessono?"

"You mean since Napa lost?"

Blaine nodded.

"Not long, unless I want to be paying rack rate."

"Pity."

"Why?"

"Well, I doubt that room has been enjoyed to its fullest potential," Blaine said with a sly arch of the brow.

"Mr. Anderson, are you trying to get into my pants just so you can hang out in my suite?"

"I was just thinking about that stone hot tub out on your patio. And maybe the outdoor shower."

****

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I dedicate this chapter to the anons in my tumblr inbox.
> 
> It's not secret that chapters like this one are not in my wheelhouse, that I have to push myself out of my comfort zone to write details of physical intimacy. Simply put, I'm not a porn writer. I just like to tell stories, and while I won't shy away from sexual content, I'll only include it when I feel it belongs in the story. 
> 
> It's been a bit of a build to this point, and I've had a lot of anons contact — most of them quite politely — asking when the story would 'get to the sex'. That, combined with a few supportive comments on tumblr about 'heat' really started to psych me out when I sat down to write this chapter, because I know this is not my strength, nor is it the focus of the story.
> 
> So thanks for hanging in there, for not pushing me too hard, and for understanding if it's not the wall-to-wall sexcapades you may have been waiting for. And, as always, thanks to iconicklaine and sillygleekt for seeing the words to fruition and buckeyegrrl for putting a face on this story.


	18. Chapter 17

At some point, somewhere between the bedroom at noon and the kitchen at dusk, they found the energy to clean the house, toss empty bottles into the recycling bin, dispose of the _everything else_ into the trash and make the Rhapsody residence look less like a fraternity house and more like a home again.

"So you told me this party was in my honor, right?"

"That's right," Kurt said, putting the last of the glasses away.

"Then how did I get stuck washing the dishes?"

Kurt stepped behind Blaine and wrapped  his arms around his waist, nuzzling at the back of his neck and smiling to himself. Blaine savored the moment, looking out the window, taking in the late afternoon sun. "You still feel like locking yourself in for the rest of the day?"

"What were you thinking?" Kurt asked, breathing him in.

"Some fresh air. Let's walk."

****

They hiked through the vines, Blaine in his jeans and t-shirt, Kurt in clothes Blaine’s brother had left behind on his last visit. They walked slowly, deliberately, side-by-side, following about 10 paces behind Blaine's energetic Australian shepherd.

The vineyard looked alive with growth. The gnarled stumps that had been neatly pruned to a "T" when Kurt had first visited Rhapsody now burst open in the vibrant green of young foliage, dotted by clusters of young grapes no bigger than pinheads. In a few months, they would become the foundation for 2013 Syrah and Zinfandel. 

"Time to prune soon," Blaine said, reaching down and snapping off a couple of stray shoots.

"But I thought this was the quiet season. It grows through summer, then you've got harvest and crush in fall, right?"

"Fall's the busiest season, but summer's a constant battle. There's the worry that there won't be enough heat, or that there'll be too much; the issue of water, and pests, and then the birds going after the fruit when it starts to mature. And then there's the pruning. You don't want it to grow too big too fast. You've got to pace things."

Blaine kicked at the dirt, and kept his focus down, away from Kurt.

"So what's next?" he asked.

"Hmm?"

"For you. This competition of yours is done. Now what?"

"The rest of the project. Now I go back to writing," Kurt said, smiling, reaching for Blaine's hand. "It's another nine months of nothing but California wine country for _Taste_ Magazine."

He pulled Blaine close, touching nose-to-nose. "I'm not going anywhere," he whispered.

"Not yet."

"Not yet," Kurt echoed, drawing him into a kiss. As they broke from the kiss, Blaine took his hand, leading him up the dusty trail. 

"And where are you taking me?" 

"You'll see."

They walked hand-in-hand through the vineyard, toward the upper reaches of Rhapsody. They reached the upper ridge, near the spot where Kurt had received his brief lesson on the art of the spring prune, but Blaine kept walking. 

He stopped at an expanse of airy open space, a wide field of tall grass and mustard weed dancing on the breeze. 

"Is this where you would expand?" 

Blaine nodded and bit his lip.

"What would you grow here?"

"It depends," he said, setting his hands on his hips. "I could keep planting Syrah. It responds well here. I could expand production."

"Or?"

"Or I could plant other varieties and use them for blending — Petit Verdot, Petite Sirah, maybe  some Cab or Merlot."

"Bordeaux? Say it ain't so." Kurt said, laughing.

"I'm serious. I already source Cab and Merlot for _Sotto Voce_. It's predominantly Syrah, but it's a blend. If I grew them here instead of buying someone else's fruit, I might have a little more control, and I would know what to expect in terms of volume and quality."

Blaine sat in the dirt, stretching his legs out and resting back on his palms, catching the light breeze and the setting sun on his face. Kurt just stood and watched him for a moment, until a hand reached up, beckoning him down. Kurt sat down between Blaine's legs, settling his back into Blaine's chest, allowing himself to be enveloped. 

"What's stopping you?"

"I didn't want to expand too fast, I guess. And there's the expense. Buying the property's only the start of it."

"You're about to see the demand for Rhapsody skyrocket, you know. And it might even spill over to the value of adjoining properties."

Kurt leaned his head back, drawing them cheek-to-cheek. Blaine turned, closed his eyes and placed a soft kiss to his jaw.

"The thought had dawned on me."

He trailed kisses down Kurt's neck.

"You know, even if you don't plant it, it might be a good investment, and it gives you a barrier around your existing vineyard."

"Or part of it..."

"Or part of it."

Blaine sat up, wrapping his arms around Kurt's waist and hooking his chin over his shoulder.

"Have you ever thought about becoming a business manager?" he asked.

"Well, you've already trained me to be a professional vine manager. Maybe it's time for a promotion."

"Professional vine manager?"

"New title for the guys working the vineyard. More respectful than 'field hand'."

"I like it," Blaine said, moving in for a purposeful kiss.

They sat like that, woven together, for close to an hour, watching a pair of red-tailed hawks soar in concentric circles overhead as the sun dipped behind the Carneros hills. 

"The little ones must be flying now," Blaine said. "Otherwise, we wouldn't be seeing them together like that."

"Hmm?"

"The hawks," he said, pointing them out. "They're back to their courtship dance. In early spring, they really put on a show. But once the eggs are in the nest, you don't see them fly together again until after the hatchlings take flight."

"And then?" Kurt asked, leaning their heads together.

"They're monogamous. They mate for life. Once they're able to be together again, they're inseparable. That pair has lived here for at least three years."

"Smart birds," Kurt said, leaning in for another kiss. It was quickly interrupted by the dog, who yipped and pawed at Blaine's arm.

"Someone hasn't eaten today."

" _Smart dog_ ," Kurt said, reaching over to give the shepherd a pat behind her ears. "Dinner's  starting to sound pretty good." He shuffled her dog tags between his fingers.

 _KDP_.

"KDP? What kind of name is that?"

"Well, it's KD."

"Like KD Lang?"

"Not exactly..."

"And the P? Oh my god, is your dog named Katy Perry?"

"Not exactly..."

"Then the P stands for?"

Blaine stood up and extended a hand to help Kurt up, averting his eyes.

"Puppy."

"No."

"What?"

"Katy Puppy?"

Blaine looked at him with bemused distress, knowing that his penchant for the pop princess had  been discovered.

"Do you still want me to feed you?"

Kurt willed away his laughter by biting his lip.

"I didn't say a thing."

They walked back toward the house hand-in-hand, the raspberry sunset bleeding into the inky indigo of the emerging night. About halfway down the hill, Kurt felt a jarring vibration in his pocket, and then again about 30 seconds later. 

"The spa day must be over," he said. "Command appearance, tomorrow morning."

"I thought you liked Quinn." 

"I do, when I don't have other things on my mind."

Blaine smiled to himself, and looked away.

"Do you want to head back down there tonight?"

"No. At least if that's okay with you. I like it up here, the privacy. No chance of bumping into anyone. Just us."

They reached the front door, and Blaine stopped to pull Kurt into an embrace.

"Okay. Just us."

**** 

"Is this a thing? Is this our thing?" Kurt asked, legs tangled with Blaine's as the morning sun slapped at the bedroom windows. 

Blaine shut his eyes and stretched his arms and settled into the pillows, into the feather bed, into Kurt, making himself comfortable and not looking ready to get up and start the day.

"Mmm. What? What thing is our thing?"

"Mornings."

"Oh. _Mornings_. Mmm, maybe? You have to admit, it's a nice way to wake up."

Kurt rolled over, curling into Blaine's arms. His kissed his ear, running his tongue along its shell, drawing out a soft moan. He was already noting and recording these spots for future reference: the ear, the clavicle, the little birthmark near where his neck met his spine, the tiny spot behind his knee. Each one, touched just so, elicited its own moan, gasp or sigh. And Kurt intended to remember each and every one, to have it catalogued in his head, and maybe his heart.

"I need to be up soon and call for the car."

"I'll drive you," Blaine murmured, "and I think you already are."

****

"I could have had the driver pick me up, you know," Kurt said, hunkering down in the passenger seat to try to defeat the wind gusting into the open-top truck.

"Something tells me that perk's not going to be available much longer. Besides, I needed to run some errands. Isn't this more fun?"

Blaine reached his right hand over from the steering wheel, giving Kurt's knee a quick squeeze.

"You are better looking than Joe, I'll give you that. But at least he keeps the roof closed."

"If Joe drove this fine vehicle instead of a Town Car, I guarantee you he'd keep the top off," Blaine laughed. "So, are you in meetings all day?"

"I suspect I'm putting in some quality hours with Quinn, breaking down the Challenge, mapping out story ideas — that's a few hours — and I figure I'd better add in an hour or two for venting, hugging, ranting and hand-holding."

"How about if we send 'Tana in your place, lock the door behind her and leave those two to it, then we can go lock ourselves away in your room?"

Kurt gave him his best _Bitch, please_ look.

"Just an idea," Blaine said, grinning like a Cheshire cat.

"And enticing as that idea is, Mr. Anderson..." 

Blaine's smile just grew bigger, and Kurt was certain he could see a little twinkle behind his dark aviators.

"How long do you think your errands will take?"

"How long do you need them to take?"

It felt like a gentle press, a feeling of air being pushed from his chest that left Kurt tingling.

"How about this? I have a spare key card. Let yourself in when you're done with everything you need to do. If I'm done with Quinn, I'll be there. If not, just make yourself comfortable and send me a text. I'll get there as soon as I can."

"Okay. Three or fours hours, you think?"

"Tops."

"Want me to make dinner reservations?"

Then it was Kurt's turn to grin.

"Let's eat in."

****

For the first time in memory, Kurt beat Quinn to a meeting.

She was prompt to a fault, always early, always anxious to get started. Kurt was... less so.

But when he arrived at Bardessono's restaurant for their 10 a.m. meeting, already running 15 minutes late after scrambling to get to his room and get changed without drawing too much attention to himself. Quinn was nowhere to be found.

"Mr. Hummel?" 

Kurt turned with a start at the waiter's call. 

"You were waiting for Ms. Fabray? She called down a little while ago and said to let you know that she had been detained and would try to be down by 10:30."

Pleasantly stunned by the turn of events, Kurt settled in with his iPad and coffee, reading the news and catching up on emails that had been allowed to accumulate for a few days, the subject lines a blur of congratulations, thanks and shock at Napa's loss.

In the thick of it, a note from Santana jumped out from the rest. "GO GET SOME," she'd written sometime late Sunday. He opened it up, and the note was simple: "Don't say I never did anything for you."

He covered his mouth to stifle his laugh. _Santana Lopez, matchmaker._ It was indeed a cold day in hell.

Kurt felt a hand on his shoulder and lips on his cheek before he even registered the voice.

"Well, there you are," Quinn said in a satisfied purr. "You didn't wait too long did you? I figured 10 o'clock might have been a little... challenging... for you."

"What? Why?"

Quinn flagged the waiter down, ordered a coffee and only then looked up and gave him a sly smile. "Really, Kurt? When did you get back? Twenty minutes ago?"

" _What_?"

"Not to worry. Your secret's safe with me."

"I don't even... what... Quinn..." he stammered.

"Shh... it's okay. You deserve a little TLC, and he's cute."

 Kurt felt the blood drain from his face — it was strange, he would have imagined blushing at the moment. Instead, instinct and skin temperature told him that he was white as a ghost.

"Let's not, Quinn."

"I'm just saying..."

"No. Just, don't. Okay?"

Quinn smirked over the brim of her coffee cup and sipped away. "Whatever you say, sweetie."

"You seem calmer today. I take it the spa day served its purpose?"

"You could say that."

"And the Challenge is over."

"Yes. That, too," Quinn said, seeming distracted. "Which is one of the things we need to talk about today."

Yes, the old Quinn was back. Like a light switch flipped, she returned to her business mode, the calm of the moment interrupted by the reality of running a magazine and ensuring that the event, to which she'd devoted months of her time and an unmentioned amount of her budget developing, had served its intended purpose.

She reached down into her Birkin bag and pulled out her tablet, pulling up a spreadsheet of to-dos and timelines and goals and markers.

"So, we did well," she said. "Sold out both events. In terms of attendance and media coverage, we did great."

"I sense a but," Kurt said.

"The results were unexpected."

"We couldn't control that."

"I'm not saying that's a bad thing," Quinn said. "The Sonoma sweep was a surprise to everyone." She leaned in whispering. "Not the least of which was Napa. They got their asses handed to them."

She laughed. _Laughed_. Kurt sat still — confused, concerned, and a little amused by it all.

"They want a rematch."

"What?! No, Quinn. No."

"I'm not saying right away, but maybe this becomes an annual thing? Bob Devries' insecurity just wrote us a ticket to make this a recurring event."

"Oh god. This is not what I was expecting, Quinn. What about the advertising?"

"Are you kidding? Do you know how much earned media we got on this? That was gold, Kurt. _Gold_. And all those wineries are planning on advertising the _shit_ out of the fact that they were finalists." She settled back into her chair, cozying up with her coffee cup. 

Kurt was speechless.

"Don't worry. With the first year behind us, and it looking like a success, I can bring someone in to handle the details moving forward, and you can go back to your column, which we also need to discuss."

"I have several ideas sketched out."

"Of course you do, and I'm sure you gave them detailed consideration in the minutes you were waiting for me to show up," she said, laughing. "I know how you work, Kurt. And there are going to be some changes."

"What?"

"To the project." 

"How so? I thought we were set with the year in the Wine Country."

"Yes, but why limit ourselves to Napa and Sonoma? Shouldn't the point be that California's wine country stretches from border-to-border? _Imagine_ the possibilities."

"What exactly are you saying?"

"You're staying here. Not _here_ , certainly. I was told that Napa's hospitality will be cut off by Wednesday. You'll finish off the project from — wherever — but you won't necessarily be spending all of your time here. I want you writing about other wine regions, too: Temecula, Paso Robles, Santa Barbara, Monterey, the I-5 corridor, wherever."

Kurt gave her a blank stare.

"You can be based wherever you see fit, so long as you keep to budget," she said. "I can still get you a deal at AmeriSuites."

"So, I'll be traveling again?"

"Yes, but short trips. You're California-based through March, then home."

Quinn's voiced had picked up its New York clip, a rapid staccato that was all business.

"Let's wrap this up. You have other business to attend to," she said.

"You're the only thing on my calendar today."

"That doesn't mean you don't have plans," she said with a little smile, tucking the tablet away and signing off on the tab. "I saw him head up to your room about 15 minutes ago." 

****

Blaine cursed Bardessono's architect under his breath. There was only one way in and one way out of the guest areas as far as he could tell, and ever since the profile in _Taste_ , his face was well known around the valley.

His round of errands had drawn hand shakes and congratulations,  and questions about buying Rhapsody wines and requests to pose for camera-phone _selfie_ portraits. People that he didn't know _knew him_.

In that moment — in any moment, really — he preferred anonymity.

He did his best to look inconspicuous, leaving the truck at the far back of the parking lot, near the restaurant, and toying with his phone and fussing with his leather backpack as he walked through the foyer. He moved through the courtyard with deliberate speed, making a hasty beeline to the room. 

It was only mid-afternoon, and Blaine had not heard from Kurt yet, nor had he expected to. From what he had heard about Quinn, the meeting could go on for _hours_.

He let himself in with a click and a "Kurt?" only to be met with expected silence.

He set the bag down and unpacked it, item by item, on the kitchenette counter: locally made herbed chèvre and Humboldt Fog blue cheese, water crackers, a knife, two champagne flutes, a bottle of Roederer Anderson Valley Estate Brut sparkling wine, lube, a box of condoms.

 _I might as well return the favor,_ he thought.

He put the cheese and wine in the small refrigerator, then put the other supplies away, taking the lube and condoms to the bedroom. He pulled open the nightstand drawer and found it had little room for anything else. Kurt had used it for wine storage, a bottle resting on its side, the familiar label face up.

 _Sotto Voce_ was scrolled across the face with his signature in gold Sharpie to one side.

****

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks as always to iconicklaine, who keeps things coherent; sillygleekt, who keeps things precise; and buckeyegrrl, who made it pretty.
> 
> A note on posting: Yup, I'm a day early this week. Tomorrow's a beast, so I'm just going ahead and doing this now. Next week may be worse, and I'm not clear when I'll be able to post. I'll be at Coachella Friday-Monday, and my usual schedule there is to drag my sorry ass out of bed by 11, take a quick shower, hit the shuttle to the polo grounds and get there by 1pm, then back to the hotel around 2 am. We're trying to make sure that Ch 18 -- another two-parter -- is ready to go by Friday, but it's hard to say. I'll either post early Sunday if I've got my act together or late Monday Pacific time if I don't.


	19. Chapter 18A

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Another two-parter, starting with a short Kurt column. I'm at Coachella and getting ready to head out to the festival grounds, so I'll post it now, and part B tomorrow morning. Thanks!
> 
> Oh, and if you want to see this is the lovely magazine format, visit: http://64.37.48.241/~sillygle/tastemag/uncorked/18-on-the-road.htm

** UNCORKED **

Kurt Hummel, _Taste_ Wine Editor

**A YEAR IN THE VALLEY  
On The Road Of Sunshine And Syrah**

If all you think about when you think about California wine is Napa and Sonoma, then think again. It takes the fingers from more than one hand to count the regions that would take exception.

In reality, countless communities across California call themselves wine countries, and for good reason. Viticulture is as much a part of California culture as Botox.

And if you expand your view to the entire West Coast, you'll find wineries from one international border to the next: sweet Rieslings from Washington and plummy Pinots from Oregon; San Diego County Chardonnays and Old Vine Zinfandels from Cucamonga, where entire vineyards were plowed under just a decade ago to make room for mini-malls, and where viticulture is now making a comeback through small lots and backyard vineyards.

Oh, and try as you may, don't forget Fresno.

It may not be the bucolic hub of spas and Michelin star restaurants, but it does grow a lot of the grapes that end up in that glass of wine you're drinking.

Even L.A. has a winery, just a couple of graffiti scrawls away from the concrete-lined Los Angeles River. You may know Santa Barbara Pinots from the movies, but the area has exploded in recent years as a wine producer, and now boasts vineyards growing more than 50 wine grape varietals. And let's not forget Paso Robles, which could be the world's next great wine region.

They grow and adapt to their environments. They change as needed, to shifting demographics and economics and tastes. Not every winery can be a Napa palace. Not every vineyard can be located on a Sonoma farm. Some of them are wedged between subdivisions. Some are located next to train tracks. Others are planted as green space mandates by city planning commissions.

I'll be stretching my legs over the next several months, visiting California wineries from north to south, looking for that something new, that something different, that something unheralded — that is what _Taste_ is all about.

Will we find another Rhapsody, the little Sonoma winery that could, and did?

Less than two months ago, Rhapsody was a small producer of Rhône varietals, in demand among local enthusiasts, but largely unknown outside the valley. But the tiny winery — high on quality but low on acreage or supply — made a big name for itself by winning gold and bronze medals in last month's _Taste_ Challenge.

The six weeks since the competition have rocked the boutique winery. Rhapsody has carefully made use of all of its 15 acres of land, and sourced much of its blending fruit for its exquisite _Sotto Voce_ Syrah blend, the overall winner among reds.

Its production lots were already sell-outs, or close to it, before demand skyrocketed with the winery's _Taste_ Challenge successes.

Its wine club now has a waiting list more than 100 names deep and its owner/winemaker Blaine Anderson has decisions to make, questions that would be easy for the executive of a large winery, but that could be life-altering for an artisan winemaker.

Does he expand Rhapsody, or not?

To answer that question involves complications and implications Anderson didn't envision a year ago, and is loathe to discuss today.

Is it an opportunity? A challenge? A setback? Will it compromise the outstanding quality of Rhapsody wines?

Doubtful, I think.

Anderson is a winemaker who clearly is devoted to putting quality before quantity, but he nonetheless will face increased pressure to produce more wine for a broader audience in the coming months.

Like Rhapsody, obscure wineries dot the state, their charges practicing their craft and improving their product until the day that they can be fortunate enough to face the same tough choices as Rhapsody's Anderson.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks as always to iconicklaine for a clear view from 30,000 feet; to sillygleekt for seeing the details unclose and to buckeyegrrl for seeing a vista and recreating it for all to see. And of course thanks to all of you. I am blown away by your support of Sotto Voce, every damn day.


	20. Chapter 18 B

Kurt snapped the laptop shut and stretched his arms up, then out, then behind his back. 

"Home sweet..."

He looked at the tent card promoting this month's pay-per-view features.

"...AmeriSuites."

Quinn had been right, of course. So had Blaine.

Within 72 hours of the conclusion of the _Taste_ Challenge, Kurt had politely but unmistakably been advised that Bardessono's room situation had "grown tight" for the foreseeable future, and that the luxury resort could no longer cut him a deal on his suite. In fact, it appeared that the entire hotel was booked solid for quite some time to come.

Bob Devries let him know that the limousine company could no longer afford to keep one of its Town Cars out of rotation so that it would be available on an on-call basis for him. He did say that Kurt could obtain reasonable rates at any one of several car services serving the Napa Valley.

In the six weeks since the Challenge, Kurt had booked a room in the generic extended stay hotel, packed his things and rented a car small enough to make a cluster of clowns snicker.

Ultimately, it didn't matter, Kurt told himself. He was gone half the time, on the road to one winery or another up and down the state.

When he was in town, the hotel served as his _de facto_ office, nothing more than a space to sort his notes, makes calls from and make use of free Wi-Fi. At the end of each work day, he packed his things and drove to the remote location where he had become most comfortable. He didn't share his feelings with Blaine — not yet — but Rhapsody had already begun to feel like home.

He knew that six weeks was too soon to truly consider himself _home_ at the winery, of course, even though he felt as at home there as he had anywhere, at any time.

And six weeks was certainly too soon to be in love, his head knew that. 

He just had to convince his heart of it.

The fact of the matter was that his heart had been a goner from early on, probably from that first dinner of burgers and Bordeaux, and forcing himself to bottle those feelings up those first couple of months had only caused them to explode with a pent-up force when they were finally uncorked. The feelings were so sudden, and so strong, that he feared acknowledging them would only serve to frighten off Blaine.

So he kept his thoughts locked tight, at least for a little while longer, until he could be certain that the right time had passed, the right place located, before the right words could be spoken.

He had just returned from a trip to San Diego and Riverside counties, arid and sunny wine regions in the southern-most stretches of the state, where winemakers took advantage of hot days and cool nights to produce high-octane Zinfandels and bold Chardonnays.

With few exceptions, the atmosphere at the southern wineries was entirely different than that of Napa or even Sonoma. There were established winemakers that had upgraded their landscaping and decor to try to replicate the feel of the big Napa labels. But most of the facilities had the laid-back manner of many of the Sonoma wineries Kurt had visited. There were fewer of them, of course, and spread out over a broader expanse of land, but all within a reasonable driving distance of the metropolitan centers of San Diego and Los Angeles.

And while he didn't believe that the Southern California wines had quite the refinement of their northern peers, the region was slowly developing a roster of up-and-coming, inventive vintners. The wines may never have the caché of Napa, but their day would come, Kurt thought. He wished that Blaine could have joined him to see yet another approach to winemaking and enjoy the sunny Southern California coast.

 _Too busy_ came the reply, each and every time Kurt suggested that they turn a business trip into a weekend away. _Isn't that why you hire people? So you can take time off?_ Kurt thought. _Okay, if we can't have a weekend away, we'll make one at home,_ he quietly promised himself.

His column finished, he rushed to unpack, then repack his weekender bag with items suitable for an uninterrupted night or two at Rhapsody.

****

When Kurt finally reached the winery, Blaine was already waiting for him on the verandah, KD at his feet and a glass of iced tea at his side. He didn't appear to be doing anything other than watching the sun creep lower on the horizon.

"Can you direct me to the manager?" Kurt asked as he climbed out of his tiny rental car. "I think I found an employee slacking off on the job. And I have it on good authority that it's _very_ busy right now."

Blaine grinned, not moving from his comfortable perch.

"He quit. I'm in charge here now."

"And what are you in charge of, exactly?"

"Supervision."

"And what exactly are you supervising?" Kurt asked, taking a seat next to him.

"Well, right now I'm watching the sunset. And I can confirm that it is on schedule."

Kurt rested his head on Blaine's shoulder. "Very good. I'm glad you're on top of that. Any other assignments in this very important job of yours?"

"Mmmm, yes. I'm in charge of housing and social events."

"I didn't realize there was a call for that here."

"Oh yes," Blaine said, taking his hand. "In fact, there's a very special dinner event scheduled for this evening."

"A big dinner party?"

Blaine pulled Kurt's hand to his lips. "Just the opposite."

"And what's the occasion for this special dinner, may I ask?"

"Does there need to be a reason?"

Kurt caught Blaine's eye, and held it until he couldn't wait any longer, leaning in for a soft, lingering kiss. They separated slightly, their faces just inches apart.

"No, not really. Maybe someone was missed."

"I see," Kurt said. "So there _is_ an upside to being out of town. Now tell me, what's on the menu?"

"I was thinking about grilling some salmon and vegetables. And there's dessert."

"Dessert? You know the way to my heart, Mr. Anderson."

Blaine looked away for a moment, a look that Kurt had come to recognize as a drop of shyness, self-consciousness, that Blaine carried with him, no matter how undeservedly. But what truly threw Kurt for a loop, each and every time, was how Blaine would recover by pulling his eyes back up, locking his focus in such a way to make Kurt's stomach do loop-de-loops.

He took a breath, centered himself, and got back on track. 

"Need some help in the kitchen?"

Blaine stood up, released his hand and leaned in to place a delicate kiss to Kurt's forehead. 

"Stay here and relax. I won't be long."

They ate by candlelight on the veranda as night crept over the valley, sipping a coastal Pinot Noir and talking about their week.

At least, Kurt talked. He talked about the Southern California wineries he had visited, about the traffic he had suffered through and the Pacific Ocean acting like a reflective panel for the bright summer sun.

Blaine took in every word silently, nodding over his glass, holding eye contact with Kurt for every detail of his story. He'd cock his head to one side from time-to-time, absorbing the words, or rest his chin on his interlocked fingers, focused.

"...Well, at least the room comes with breakfast, if you want to call it that," Kurt paused, squinting at Blaine. "Is everything okay? You're awfully quiet."

"Just thinking," he said.

"About...?"

"This," Blaine said. "That hotel of yours that you're almost never in — by design, I think. You're here more than you are there, and it just seems like such a waste."

"What are you saying, Blaine?"

Blaine bit his lip, one last motion to give himself a moment to block the words about to bubble out of his mouth.

"I don't want to overstep. This is all still pretty new, and I want to be clear: I'm not asking you to move in with me, not exactly. It's just that I have this apartment, or guest house or whatever you want to call it just sitting here, empty, and it seems kind of ridiculous, considering it's a hundred times better than AmeriSuites."

"Are you saying what I think you're saying? Because _I_ don't want to overstep here, either."

"What I'm saying is you don't have to live in a crappy hotel. I have space here that's yours if you want it. You can have privacy, and access to a damn fine wine cellar. And like AmeriSuites, it has free Wi-Fi. And I'm betting that my breakfasts are a lot better."

Kurt's face lit up brighter than a halogen bulb.

"They are! Are you sure?"

"Yes, I'm certain that my breakfasts are better than the buffets at AmeriSuites," Blaine said, laughing, then dropping his voice. "And yes, I want you to stay here."

"In the apartment?"

"In the apartment. But just to be clear — you're welcome everywhere."

" _Everywhere_? Can I test that?"

"I hope you do, starting tonight," Blaine said, standing up. 

Kurt cocked an eyebrow in confusion. "Where are you going?"

"I thought I'd get dessert, maybe a bottle of something to celebrate with. How about we take it upstairs?"

"On the balcony?"

"As you wish." 

Blaine's voice sounded gravelly, in a lower register than usual. He looked at Kurt with a half smile that suggested he had already thought this through. "Go. Do your evening routine. I won't be far behind."

He waited until Kurt had disappeared from sight, then set himself in motion. He could hear the shower start up, and he knew had enough time to get this right.

Setting a tray on the counter, he opened a 2009 _Fortissimo_ Port, one he had set aside, and grabbed a small snifter from the cabinet. He opened the kitchen wine cooler and pulled out the box he had hidden earlier, from the chocolatier on the square.

He opened it gingerly to reveal several small desserts: a milk chocolate hazelnut mousse, a dark chocolate ganache. He set them on a plate, then took two small bowls and filled one with crème fraîche and the other with berries he had prepped earlier: fresh raspberries, blueberries and blackberries from the farmer's market. From the freezer, he pulled a small carton of the very darkest chocolate ice cream he had ever seen.

He set them all on the tray, along with a single rose, kicked off his shoes and carefully climbed  the stairs to the master bedroom. 

Kurt was standing in front of the vanity in a robe and pajama pants, patting moisturizer into his skin, when Blaine nudged the door open.

"Oh, chocolate! Should we set up on the balcony?" Kurt asked.

Setting his eyes on Kurt, Blaine set the tray on the nightstand, and shook his head slowly.

He took the rose from the tray. 

"Come here."

Kurt did as he was told, stopping inches from Blaine, touching his fingertips to Blaine's chest. "I don't see any plates on there," he whispered.

"We won't be needing them." 

Blaine ran the rose along Kurt's jaw and down his neck. "We also won't be needing this," he added, sliding a finger into the half-knotted belt on Kurt's robe, pulling it open. He pushed the robe from Kurt's shoulders and eased him back toward the bed with a soft, lingering kiss.

Blaine pulled back the duvet, then guided Kurt down to the mattress. He handed Kurt the rose, then unbuttoned his own shirt. 

"Port?"

"Any port in a storm," Kurt chirped, immediately regretting it.

Blaine shut his eyes and covered his mouth with his hand, trying not to laugh. He gave Kurt a fleeting _Really?_ look, then poured the rich red wine into the snifter.

"Aren't you going to have any?" Kurt asked.

Blaine set the drink on the nightstand.

"I am," he said, shifting his hands to his waist and unbuttoning his jeans. He removed his shirt and clambered onto the bed, kneeling next to Kurt, and reaching again for the port. 

"This is my glass."

Kurt gave an exaggerated frown. "What about me?"

Blaine smiled and took the berries and the bowl of crème fraîche from the tray. 

" _I'm_ yourglass."

Blaine took a blackberry, dipped it in the bowl, and fed it to Kurt. 

"Good?" 

Kurt nodded, a tiny smile creasing his lips.

Blaine took a small slice of the deep chocolate ganache and split it into smaller sections, just enough to melt and savor on the tongue. He held one out, just about an inch from Kurt's lips, and grinned. Kurt's eyes lit up. 

"You're going to make me work for this, aren't you?" he said, craning his head to reach Blaine's extended fingers, taking them and the rich chocolate into his mouth. He closed his eyes and savored the treat.

"What fun would it be if I didn't?" Blaine said. He reached for the fruit, dipping a raspberry into the port before running it across Kurt's lower lip, drawing a perfect lipstick line of _Fortissimo_ across Kurt's open mouth. As Kurt began to lick his lip clean, Blaine reached in with the berry, touching it to Kurt's tongue. 

Kurt lapped at the berry, trying to draw it into his mouth, but Blaine teased, pulling it away just as Kurt tried to bite down. He drew it close again, with the same results. On the third pass, Kurt finally reached up and grabbed Blaine's wrist, holding his hand still as he took berry and fingers into his mouth, sucking and chewing until the port-soaked fruit was free of Blaine's grip.

" _Greedy_ ," Blaine said, leaning in for a kiss.

"Tease," Kurt countered. 

"Good?"

Kurt closed his eyes.

"Mmm, delicious. More wine tastings should be staged like this."

"Kurt?"

Blaine coated his finger in port, and let it slowly drift across Kurt's lips, following closely by Kurt's tongue.

" _Shhh_."

Blaine stayed still, and quiet, focused on Kurt's face: looking, lingering, holding his gaze. He didn't break the silent stare until Kurt cocked his head to one side, raising his eyebrows as if to ask _What's wrong?_

It snapped Blaine out of his reverie, if only long enough to reach again for the glass, dipping his index finger and running it along his own lips, leaning into Kurt, who welcomed the kiss eagerly. He licked at Blaine's lip until Blaine locked their mouths in a molten kiss that left any plan to _take it slow_ in ashes.                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                      

Kurt's hand drifted to Blaine's stomach, fumbling under his waist band.

" _Patience_ ," Blaine said. 

He took a spoon and dipped it into the dark chocolate ice cream. With his fingertip, he smeared it across Kurt's lower lip. Before Kurt could lick it off, he dove in, tonguing at Kurt's lip and tasting the ice cream for himself.

"Hey!"

"I like chocolate," Blaine said, shrugging and lifting his finger to his mouth. Kurt grabbed his hand before he could lick off the remaining ice cream, and pulled Blaine's hand to his own mouth. " _Mine_ ," Kurt said, sucking Blaine's finger into his mouth. 

"The ice cream, or me?"

Kurt reached up, raking his hand through Blaine's hair.

"Both."

He pulled Blaine in, licking a stray drop of chocolate from his upper lip, then kissing across his cheek to his jawline and neck.

"Turn over," he whispered. "On your back. And these pants have got to go."

Blaine shimmied out of his jeans, kicking them off and sending them flying across the room to the foot of the closet. 

"Nice aim," Kurt said, picking up the mousse from the tray. "What do we have here?"

"Chocolate-hazelnut mousse. Think fluffy Nutella," Blaine said.

Kurt took a finger-full and fed it to Blaine. "One for you..." he said, as Blaine licked the sweet fluff from his hand.

He took a second dollop and painted the mousse across Blaine's skin, starting just below his jaw and drawing down to his upper chest. 

"...And one for me."

His tongue traced the sweet line, lapping at Blaine's neck, sucking at his chest, savoring the confection and the skin it coated.

"Oh god, I love Nutella," he mumbled.

" _More_ ," Blaine moaned. 

"More for you? _Or more for me_?" Kurt said with wicked grin.

"Both."

He scooped more of mousse onto his finger, drawing a delicate line down the ridge of Blaine's nose, then kissing it clean.

"Hang on." 

Kurt kicked off his pajama pants and took the snifter Blaine had set on the nightstand. He took a raspberry from the bowl and dipped it in the port, running the berry along Blaine's parted lips, letting him catch the juice from the fruit before eating it. Then Kurt dripped port along Blaine's sternum, following along with his mouth. 

He dipped a berry in the glass, then held it between his lips as he went in for another kiss, sharing the sweet fruit.

"Kurt."

He dotted crème fraîche on Blaine's nipples, and removed it with kisses. Blaine shut his eyes tight, focused on his sense of touch, of smell, of taste.

"Kuurrt..."

Kurt drew a heart of dark chocolate on Blaine's stomach, earning appreciative moans. He lined it with crème fraîche before licking it clean. 

Blaine was well on his way to incoherence.

"Let me."

"Hmm?"

"Let me, Kurt."

"What do you want?"

"Let me, _please_."

"Blaine?"

With that, Blaine opened his eyes, revealing whiskey irises nearly obliterated by his blown-dark pupils. He grabbed Kurt around the waist and flipped him over so that Kurt was lying face-up. He reached for the ice cream and skipped the spoon, taking several fingers-full and smearing them haphazardly across Kurt's chest, down his stomach and into the dusting of hair below his navel.

Kurt giggled and squealed like a child being tickled, and raised his hips seeking relief.

Blaine took the port and dribbled lines of it from stomach to thigh, then took a large sip and leaned up toward Kurt's face, covering Kurt's body with his own while they shared a deep kiss accented with the flavor of the tart, smokey drink.

"We're covered in chocolate," Kurt said.

"I love chocolate," Blaine mumbled, burying his head in Kurt's shoulder. "Have more ganache."

He took a sliver of the soft, dark chocolate and fed it to Kurt, then returned to licking and kissing his way down Kurt's body. He took another finger of mousse and ran it down his chest, then kissed his way further south. He lapped at the residue of port, then gently spread Kurt's legs for better access and drew the remaining mousse along his seeping cock.

"Somebody's eating all the Nutella," Kurt huffed.

" _Dessert_ ," Blaine responded, without context or coherence. He reached for another berry, chewed it lightly, then lapped at Kurt's cock, blending the mousse and rich berry flavors with precome as he took Kurt deep into his mouth.

Kurt gasped, and grabbed the sheets, and made no effort to slow the grinding motion of his hips toward Blaine's face.

" _Shit_."

Blaine smiled and hummed his approval.

"Blaine. I'm not gonna last with you doing that."

Blaine gripped the base of Kurt's cock, stroking it as he ran his tongue along a prominent vein.

"Blaine, please."

Blaine pulled off to clamber up Kurt's body, whispering into his ear. "What do you want, baby? Tell me how to make it good."

"Oh, god. Blaine."

Blaine kissed him, deep and dirty, and reached for both their cocks, aligning them in his hand.

"Like this?" he asked, pumping them together.

A groan was all that Kurt could manage.

"Here," he said, taking his free hand and reaching for Kurt's wrist. "Help me."

He reached to link their fingers, and picked up the pace as they stroked and twisted as one. Only after they had reached a synchronous rhythm did he give in to it, burying his face into the warmth of Kurt's neck, squeezing his eyes shut from tears he could feel building.

"Blaine... I'm... _Blaine... I,_ " Kurt pushed his head back into the pillows, unable to hold back any longer. Moments later, Blaine joined him in his delirium.

Amidst the moans and sighs of the moment, he almost missed the words Kurt murmured into his neck.

" _I love you._ "

He opened his eyes and saw nothing but the darkness between the pillow and the silky crook of Kurt's shoulder. He stared for long moments, hoping he could bring his thoughts into focus.

With a final, soft kiss, he silently rolled away, getting up from the bed to run the shower.

****

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Continued thanks to all the helpers: iconicklaine, sillygleekt, buckeyegrrl and everyone who has dropped me a note of encouragement.


	21. Chapter 19

The guest house made a great home for Kurt's laptop. It also offered abundant space for his work notes. And it provided plenty of storage for his clothes.

Kurt, on the other hand, spent little time there.

Blaine's offer may have been for Kurt to move into the guest quarters, for him to have his private space, but they both knew it was nothing more than pretense, an unspoken excuse for what they both really wanted.

Kurt had stockpiled enough columns to keep Quinn happy, easing his travel schedule, so he spent his days and nights with Blaine — in the vineyards, in the winery, in the bedroom.

Blaine was convinced, and correct, that despite being an expert in the final product of wine, Kurt knew far too little about creating it, about the process of vine to wine.

"You want a good column, Kurt? Learn how to make wine. Understand it from the inside out. Learn how to grow the grapes. Become a vintner and tell them how you learned to _really_ know wine."

He was only half-joking, as was Kurt when he took him up on the offer. 

There was a time when Kurt would have been insulted by the suggestion that he didn't understand enology. The industry considered him an expert after all, an influential voice in what makes a wine stand out from the pack.

But he found that he could accept it from Blaine. This wasn't a rival critic trying to take him down a notch. Blaine, who was earnest, honest and affectionate in his own quiet way, offered him an opportunity to know more, to be better, to grow as a critic. It was also, Kurt thought, a door opening into Blaine's life, and he intended to walk through it.

"I guess I need to earn my keep," he said, taking Blaine's hand. "I am your eager and willing protégé."

"Protégé? That might be a bit much."

"Apprentice?"

"No, padawan," Blaine said. 

 _Yes,_ Kurt thought _, underneath that handsome exterior lies the heart of a science fiction nerd._

"Student, then?"

"Or intern. Take your pick."  Blaine chuckled to himself. _Score this round a win for Blaine Anderson_. He leaned over and kissed Kurt's cheek.

"I don't go throwing around apprenticeships to just anybody."

On weekdays when Kurt wasn't on the road, he would work alongside the field crew, learning the art of pruning and maintaining a vineyard canopy dense enough to shield the delicate fruit from harsh summer sun and heat, yet lacy enough to provide light throughout the plant, helping the crop to grow and mature.

Blaine also showed him how to look for early signs of vineyard-threatening powdery mildew, how to treat each vine to protect it from Glassy-winged Sharpshooters — insects that had already taken a multi-million dollar bite out of the state's wine industry. The pest literally ate vines from the inside-out, boring into old growth stock and laying eggs that would hatch and slowly eat away at a vine until it died. They also spread Pierce's Disease — lethal to grape vines — which had devastated vineyards up and down California, and had caused Napa and Sonoma counties' agriculture departments to take serious measures to ensure that the region's valuable crops were protected.

"I would have liked to have gone organic," Blaine said, as he showed Kurt how to treat the plants with low-dose insecticide. "There are a few that manage it, but it's become more and more difficult to run a vineyard without some chemicals, at least if you want to avoid having your crops destroyed. You lose a plant to Pierce's, it's more than just that year's harvest. You have to replant, and _that_ doesn't become productive for another three years." 

"So, chemicals?"

"Chemicals — in the ground — straight to the root system. And I try to minimize spraying for powdery mildew by staying on top of pruning throughout the season. If we still have to spray, I use an organic compound, so I do my best to keep chemicals out of the fields, but some of it's pretty much unavoidable."

Kurt had never heard someone speak so passionately about... chemicals. But that was Blaine, completely absorbed in his art. 

It was conversations like that, a simple explanation about chemicals and farming, that helped Kurt realize that his first impression of Blaine as dispassionate and reserved was neither complete nor accurate. Blaine might not broadcast his affections, but he had his passions. He could detail the history and mythology, the art and science of wine as if they were his own life story. He could wax poetic about the touch of a Steinway concert grand, and outline the relative merits of the banjo in American folk music. 

And while his words were few, his actions made it perfectly clear that he was also passionate about Kurt Hummel. _The words will come in time_ , Kurt assured himself every time an "I love you" was met with silence, or a touch, or a change in subject.

On weekends, they would walk the vineyard in utter privacy, side-by-side, checking each vine, taking breaks in the midday heat to shed their clothes and dive into the cool of the reservoir: Kurt a bit shy about stripping without the protective cover of four walls; Blaine considerably more comfortable with it than Kurt had expected. 

The first time they swam, Blaine thought nothing of it, peeling off his t-shirt as he strode toward the water's edge, pausing only to unbutton his Levis and pull them and his briefs down in a single, sweeping motion before running naked into the relief of the water, KD at his heels.

Kurt stood at the water's edge, sweating in the 90-degree midday heat, a look on his face that brought new meaning to the term "shock and awe."

"You coming?" Blaine asked, splashing in the water. 

"Huh?"

"Come on, Kurt, get in here. It feels great."

Wide-eyed and unnecessarily self-conscious, Kurt unbuttoned his cotton work shirt as Blaine looked on, laughing and splashing and tossing a stick to the dog. It didn't help Kurt's nerves when he started mimicking the _bahm-duh-duh-bahm_ drum line of classic stripper music, stopping Kurt cold.

"Is that _really_ necessary?"

"Well, hurry up, then! What's with the sudden modesty?"

"Just give me a moment, okay?"

With an eye roll, Blaine fell back into the water, floating and gliding his arms up and down as if to make melted snow angels and spraying a mouthful of water skyward.

Kurt shimmied out of his pants and dipped his toes in the tiny lake.

"Ditch the Calvins," Blaine said, seemingly without looking. "It'll make getting those pants on a living hell if they're wet. And the chafing..."

He slipped out of the cotton knit boxers and set them aside on a rock with his pants, then eased himself into to the cool lagoon. Blaine swam up to him in long, lazy backstrokes until they faced each other.

"Better?" 

"Better."

"Did you remember sunscreen?"

"The first rule of agriculture..." Kurt said, remembering Blaine's early tutoring sessions. "Never work outdoors without—"

"A high SPF," Blaine interjected, kissing Kurt lightly. "Especially if you have pearly skin."

"Pearly?"

Blaine grinned, pulling Kurt by the waist on top of him as he fell back into the water, landing with a splash, then a kiss. They treaded water and traded soft verbal jabs, their legs occasionally tangling under the water.

"Would you rather I called you 'fair'?"

"I'm much more than just fair."

"That you are."

"Just don't call me Porcelain — bad memories."

"I wouldn't think of it."

"I really shouldn't be in here too long. I'll freckle."

"I like your freckles. I just don't want you to burn. That could be... uncomfortable."

"Ugh," Kurt said, cringing, and turning as if to leave the water.

Blaine wrapped his arms around him and clung to his back, kissing his neck. 

"Stay," he murmured. "I can always put aloe on it."

****

Summer faded into early fall, the fruit deepening into shades of eggplant, russet and kiwi, nearing the apex of their lives on the vines.

They had set a rhythm by now, Kurt working for _Taste_ most weekdays, either on the road or at his desk. In the early evenings and weekends he worked alongside Blaine in the vineyard, the cave or the winery.

The process had become repetitive: working their way up the hillside to inspect, nip, and assess row after row of maturing grapes. Blaine added another component as the grapes deepened in color, grabbing a few sandwich bags and a refractometer so that he could measure the sugar levels — the brix — to begin setting a mental schedule for the rapidly approaching harvest.

"When are you going to call in the crew?" Kurt asked one day, as they reached the top of the property.

"When the grapes say so," was Blaine's only reply. 

He stood on the hillside, hands on hips, and looked around quietly. His brow was furrowed and his mouth tight. It wasn't his only silent moment in recent days. They'd been growing in number, frequency and volatility for days.

He looked over at his neighbor's grassy lot and bit his lip.

"I'm going to have to bring on extra help," he muttered.

"Hmm?"

He looked at Kurt, then turned to look again at the empty parcel.

"You're looking at the newest section of Rhapsody. I bought it — or at least they accepted my offer. It's mine in about a month."

"Blaine! That's great!"

"Well, I don't know if it's going to be anything more than a weed patch for a while."

Blaine detailed what he had to do, the implications and possible fallout from his decision to nearly double his acreage. He had to prep the land, design the vineyard extension, make decisions about varietals and vine stock — though he really already knew — the construction, the irrigation, the planting, the extra care that goes into establishing and nurturing something so new.

"It's a lot of work."

"You've got this," Kurt said, taking his hand and intertwining their fingers. "Look at everything you did to get this started, just you and weekends off-campus. If you could do that, you can certainly do this."

"But back then it was just dirt. Now, it's a fully-functioning winery. It means more people, more time..."

"More wine."

"That's the goal."

Kurt turned, facing Blaine, wrapping his arms around his waist.

"You have one of the hottest labels in the region. You just doubled the size of your vineyard." He leaned in close and whispered into Blaine's ear. "You have a fabulously handsome boyfriend..."

Blaine smiled, his first of the afternoon, possibly the week.

"So why do you seem so unhappy?"

Blaine rested their foreheads together.

"Not unhappy. This _is_ a good thing. It _should be_ a good thing. It just creates its own set of complications. I just have a lot on my mind, that's all."

"What about Diego? Can't he help? I know he's been away a lot lately, but..."

"I can't count on him full-time anymore, Kurt. He's gone back to school."

"What? This is the first I've heard—"

"Recent development. He's going to carve out time where he can, but he won't be able to be the vineyard manager for much longer."

"What about the rest of the guys? Couldn't one of them step in?"

"They're great, Kurt, but they're not him. He understands how to work a vineyard and how to develop a crop not just for yield, but for quality. He understands the nuance of _all_ of this, how the pieces fit together. It's a special skill, an art, one that's been passed down in his family. I'll probably have to start looking at candidates from Davis to take his place."

"Permanently?"

"That seems likely. He's got his own career to work on, and it's time for him to go."

Blaine looked pained at the words, an awful truth that he was uncomfortable acknowledging. He had known Diego since shortly after he'd bought the Rhapsody property, and he was much more than an employee. He was Blaine's longtime confidant and one of his closest friends.

The topic seemed to drive Blaine back into the silent funk he'd been in all morning. Kurt kissed his chin, then his lips, and tried to lighten his mood.

"Maybe you'll just have to step up my training."

It didn't work. Blaine let go of Kurt and looked away.

"I need someone _long-term_ , Kurt."

He started to walk away, but Kurt matched him step for step, pulling alongside.

"What was that all about?"

"Nothing."

"I get the impression that wasn't nothing, Blaine. Not when you shut down into that surly mode of yours and turn your back on me."

"It's nothing. I've got work to do," Blaine said, striding down the hill.

"Would you slow down and tell me what I said that set you off? Because I really don't understand you sometimes. All I'm doing is what you suggested — I'm trying to learn this business, and I'm offering to help you out. Tell me what's wrong with that."

Blaine stopped, folding his arms across his chest, and took a deep breath. Kurt could see in his face a look of annoyance, and an effort to measure his words before he allowed himself to speak.

"This just isn't something I can joke about, Kurt. I know you mean well, and I appreciate your help, but I need to build an experienced staff that I can count on."

"And you don't think you can count on me?"

"Kurt, you don't understand."

"Then help me."

Blaine looked him in the eye, as if studying Kurt's face. He squinted in thought, shook his head and ran a hand through his curls. 

"I'm about to lose someone who's vital to this vineyard, someone I've known for years — someone I trust. And pretty soon, I'll have to replace him. I don't just go posting on Craigslist to find someone like Diego. And I don't think that joking about taking his place helps any."

"I didn't mean anything by—"

"I know," Blaine said. "You didn't mean anything by it. I'm about to invest heavily in this place, Kurt — partly _because_ of you, because of your encouragement, and that damned contest of yours. It's costly, it's risky, and it's happening at a time when I'm about to lose someone that I need."

"I'll do what I can to help."

"I know, but that only goes so far, doesn't it?"

Kurt looked down, then took a step toward Blaine, into his space. He reached up and brushed a stray curl from his brow, then kissed him gently.

"You know I love you? You understand that?"

Blaine nodded, and avoided eye contact. Kurt took his hand, lacing their fingers together, hoping the silence would calm Blaine's inexplicably fractured nerves.

They stood in silence, holding hands, each unwilling to speak or move for minutes on end, until Kurt finally broke the silence.

"Come on," he said, tugging at Blaine's hand. "Let me make you dinner tonight."

****

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There is a light at the end of this SV tunnel I've been living in since November and posting from since Christmas Eve. I checked my calendar the other day and compared it to the remaining chapters and realized, that I will be editing the final words of this fic from Napa next month. Only seems appropriate, I guess.
> 
> I've updated the SV Glossary this week because of some new terminology. If you want to know all about bacteria and how insects can take a multi-million dollar bite out of an industry, give it a visit. 
> 
> As always, my deepest thanks to iconicklaine for seeing both the forest and the trees; to sillygleekt, who has a natural ability to count the tree rings and to buckeyegrrl, who can take a description of the forest and turn it into something visually stunning for someone who has never stood there. Thanks also to all of you who have written reviews, drops me notes, made recs I wasn't even aware of simply read this. I'm humbled and deeply grateful.
> 
> \- Girlie.


	22. Chapter 20

Each fall, the flash of cash and the smell of freshly fermenting grapes punctuated life in Napa and Sonoma counties.

 

Harvest was always the busiest and trickiest of times, and it was more complicated than usual at Rhapsody, where Blaine juggled the timing of harvest and crush with a diminished staff and a recently expanded property. 

 

The valley was abuzz with both  the height of tourist and harvest seasons, and slow-as-snails tractors hauling bushels of freshly cut grapes led conga lines of Town Cars, shuttles and limousines nosing their way up Highway 29 for weekend tasting tours.

 

After a fairly mild summer interrupted by two short, late heat waves, Blaine prepared for harvest at a manic pace: testing his grapes' sugar levels daily, trying to pinpoint a date for an expanded corps of pickers to quickly harvest Rhapsody's crop. He acid-washed and sterilized food-grade plastic drums for the impending crush; tested and cleansed an enormous commercial-grade crusher-destemmer and readied countless bins for the collection of harvested fruit.

It was all hands on deck: Blaine, Diego, members of Diego's family, the regular crew and a few Sonoma friends who didn't have their own harvests to attend to. This wasn't unusual, especially among the smaller wineries. Blaine had volunteered his time at three other vineyards just that week, everyone contributing to get grapes in fast and fresh for their crush. On the Napa side and at a handful of large Sonoma wineries, extended picking crews had arrived from the Central Valley specifically to work the Northern California grape harvest.

Kurt stacked his projects in the days and weeks leading up to harvest in order to spend as much  time as possible at Rhapsody. Technically, it was an assignment, too. The ins and outs of harvest and crush had always been on the docket as one of his columns. He would have to visit other vineyards to complete the story, but it also gave him an excuse to help Blaine out as much as he could.

The delicate Roussanne matured first. They swept through the vineyard, snipping the light green grapes from the vines and tossing the bunches into waiting bushels, which were transferred to bins, which were then driven up the hill to the winery building for crush early the next morning.

A week later, it was the Zinfandel of the upper vineyard, then the upper swath of Syrah. Finally, two weeks after the first of Rhapsody's grapes were off the vines, the lower Syrah registered a brix level of 26 — Blaine's target for the year's harvest.

Kurt worked alongside the crew, snipping grapes, shaking out the bunches with signs of spiders or ants, though the other crew members thought the practice a waste.

"Do you know how many bugs and spider webs and twigs are in your wine?" Diego laughed.

Kurt blanched. 

"Don't worry. It filters out — eventually."

Blaine scarcely found the time to say hello, let alone pay much attention to Kurt during the height of harvest. He woke well before dawn, checking the bins and equipment he had set out the night before to ensure that everything was ready for dawn and the start of work. His day would stretch well past midnight in the winery.

He moved with deliberate speed from task to task throughout the day, checking in on the vineyard occasionally, but generally leaving the supervision of the harvest to Diego. He would inspect the grapes, occasionally tossing some he found unacceptable, and do preliminary mental calculations about the total volume of grapes harvested and how that might translate into cases.

Then he was off to the winery barn, where he updated records on the harvest and two other men prepared to crush lot after lot of grapes. 

Kurt peeked his head into the tiny winery office, little more than a cubby at the back of the building where Blaine kept a small desk, a laptop and a whiteboard used to track daily brix, acid and pH levels during primary fermentation.

"Hey you," Kurt said, leaning over Blaine's shoulder to rest their cheeks together. "Do you want some help in here?"

Blaine stayed focused on his records. 

"I think I'd better work with the experienced guys, Kurt. This is going to be a push today."

Kurt sighed, just loudly enough to register with Blaine.

"Wasn't that supposed to be the point? To learn this?" Kurt pressed. 

"I'm sorry. Maybe with the Syrah. We might have more time with that."

Blaine knew he had gone back on his word to teach Kurt every aspect of winemaking, but he felt pressed for time and bodies, and couldn't sacrifice efficiency in order for Kurt to have a chance to write about running a full-scale, commercial crusher-destemmer. 

"If you want, you can watch while you're on break."

"Fine," Kurt said, backing away.

Blaine finally looked up, catching Kurt's eye. 

"Kurt? Tomorrow, okay? I promise."

Kurt nodded and left Blaine to his work. When he was sure Kurt had left, he looked up as if searching the ceiling for answers, then closed his eyes in thought. _Harvest is crunch time_ , he reminded himself.

****

Blaine had placed himself in charge of the crush, supervising as bin after bin was lifted and poured into the large stainless steel machine using a rented forklift.

Kurt stayed with him, watching and providing light assistance until he ducked out and up to the house with Patty, who took time off from the bar to bring supplies up from the square — steaks, salads, desserts and beer — for an evening BBQ and harvest party. Firing up the grill to feed family, friends and crew at the end of the harvest had become a tradition at Rhapsody. It had started as a simple dinner, feeding and thanking the people who had helped harvest the Rhapsody crop. Then it morphed into a casual, annual party with the closest of Blaine's friends, a break from the back-breaking work with food, wine, music and a traditional grape stomp.

Blaine always held back a bushel of grapes, clusters that didn't quite make the cut for the year's vintage, and in a discarded old oak half-barrel, set up a stomp that let everyone take out their stress by smashing the slippery mass into grape pulp. It was messy, slightly feral and dizzyingly fun.

After the party settled into a comfortable groove, Blaine lifted Kurt into the cask, jumping in behind him, and holding him around the waist as they stomped in time to Aretha Franklin's _Good Times._

Their stomp to the uptempo R&B classic became a dance, their feet synchronized and their hips aligned, Blaine holding Kurt's hips, leaning into his shoulder.

"I'm sorry," he whispered in Kurt's ear.

"Why?"

"You know why."

"For getting grape juice all over my pants?" Kurt teased. It drew a smile, and a squeeze.

"For ignoring you. I'm sorry, and I won't—"

"Don't. I get it. This is your deadline."

"It's going to get worse before it gets better, you know. I pretty much live in the barn during primary fermentation."

"Then we'll set up an extra cot, or I'll make you coffee, or we'll take shifts punching the caps while you get some sleep," Kurt offered. "But I want to help."

Blaine nodded, and nuzzled his way deeper into Kurt's neck while keeping their bodies in sync with the rhythm of the song, oblivious to the hollers from their gathered friends.

"I know," he said. "And as for the clothes, we're already filthy, so who cares if we're covered in slime? It's not like at the Bacchanalia."

Kurt stopped and turned to look at Blaine.

"What?"

"It's at Cuvaison this year."

"What bacchanalia?"

"You do know what a bacchanalia is, right honey?" Patty asked, interrupting them.

"Of course, but I haven't heard about this, and I know about most of the events up here — because everyone pitches them to me."

"This one's a little under-the-radar," Patty said. "Both counties, wine crews only."

"Think of it as _traditional_ ," Blaine said. "The original bacchanalias were secret rites."

Kurt gave him a quizzical look. "Secret rites? They were hedonistic, Blaine."

"It's not that. It just isn't publicized. It's thrown by winemakers for winemakers and their staffs to celebrate the end of harvest, for both counties. We come together and honor our common ground, and having survived another year."

"And we get polluted," Patty added.

"You go to this?"  Kurt asked, turning to Blaine.

"I do," Blaine said, nosing back alongside Kurt's ear, whispering: "And I want you to go with me — so long as you promise not to write about it."

Kurt considered the words, squinting in thought.

"Let's get out of this tub and talk, okay?" Blaine said, helping Kurt from the barrel and toweling off their legs. He led Kurt around to a quiet corner of the veranda.

"Kurt, I want you to go, but I'm serious. This is a very private function, and we try to keep it that way. This is strictly about winemakers celebrating the harvest, a time-honored tradition. It's not about promotions or marketing."

Blaine looked pained and waited to continue, hoping to gauge Kurt's reaction, but Kurt wasn't much help. He remained impassive, holding his best poker face.

"The hosts weren't too excited about me inviting you, but I said I wouldn't go without you. And I promised them that you wouldn't be on the job. Is that okay?"

"Fine." Kurt stared at him, expressionless.

"Kurt, this is me, going to bat for you."

"I understand. I just didn't realize I couldn't be trusted."

"But you can. That's my point," Blaine argued.

"I'm just wondering why I'm only hearing about this now."

"Kurt, if you hadn't noticed, it's been a little busy around here lately. And it's not for another two weeks."

Kurt didn't respond immediately, considering what he'd just heard. When he finally spoke, he turned to rest his hands on the banister and look out over the vineyard rather than at Blaine.

"So we're going to a party..."

"A _bacchanalia_..."

"In Napa?"

"Calistoga, to be exact."

"As a couple?"

"Is that what this is about?" Blaine asked. "Yes, as a couple. I am asking you to be my date for the Bacchanalia, to be held in Calistoga, with my counterparts from Napa."

"You sure about this?"

"I think it's pretty common knowledge at this point, Kurt."

"Over _here_ it is."

"This is farm country, Kurt. Everyone knows everyone's business. I'm sure they know. Is this something you think we should still be concerned about?"

"It shouldn't matter," Kurt said, frowning.

"But?"

Kurt wheeled around to Blaine.

"But what if it does?"

Blaine took Kurt's hands and dipped his face, urging Kurt to look up and into his eyes. "We don't have to go. Not if you're uncomfortable with it."

"You have to go, you know it. You're pretty much the face of Sonoma County wines right now."

Blaine rolled his eyes.

"They wanted me to be Bacchus."

"What?"

"You know — a laurel, a goblet, a toast to the harvest?"

"Would there be a toga involved?" 

"Um, no," Blaine said with a relieved exhale. "I declined. Smythe's going to do it. It's on his turf, anyway."

Kurt blanched at Sebastian Smythe's name, but then caught himself. If he had been reluctant to attend an event where he was not entirely welcome, he had been cured of his hesitancy with the drop of that name.

No, Blaine would not be attending this Bacchanalia alone.

He leaned into Blaine.

"I would have liked to have seen you in a toga."

****

They were nearly ready to leave for Calistoga — Kurt in a charcoal gray suit and Blaine in black-on-black, skipping the tie — but Blaine needed to stop by the cave to collect wine samples for the Bacchanalia before they could leave.

"Everyone brings a sample of their last vintage, and bottles of something mature," he said, grabbing an empty five-gallon oak mini barrel. He siphoned off some 2012 _Mezzo_ into the cask and sealed it tight, then began sorting through stored cases, clearly looking for something specific.

"What about these?" Kurt asked, pointing at a few cases of unlabeled red wine sitting in a corner. "What are they?"

"That's just something new I'm working on — it's not ready yet," Blaine said, walking over and closing the cases, then redirecting Kurt to another part of the room. "Over there."

He found cases of the 2010 _Appasionatto,_ and pulled one of the top of the stack. "This'll do."

They heard a honk from near the house, collected the wine and locked the cave behind them.

Kurt had hired a car service for the night — bacchanalias celebrated wine, after all, and had a historic reputation for drunken debauchery. He planned ahead for the drunkenness by making sure they'd booked a driver. He welcomed the debauchery, so long as it didn't involve Sebastian Smythe.

They said little over the course of the 45-minute drive. Kurt straightened Blaine's collar. Blaine shrugged, then looked out the window. At one point, he reached over and ran his finger along Kurt's knuckle.

By the time they reached Calistoga, the sun had dipped behind the hills and twilight masked the parade of Town Cars and limos entering the Cuvaison property.

At first glance, it looked like any one of a number of wine country events: the extended cave designed as much for entertaining as wine storage, the warm glow of candlelight, the oak barrels lining the walls. But this soiree looked more like a high-end BYOB party, the guests arriving carrying cases and micro-barrels of their own vintages.

Kurt laid low for most of the night, staying close to Blaine, not interrupting conversation, not playing the part that he had become accustomed to at wine industry events. Their roles had certainly reversed. Blaine, who eschewed the limelight, found himself the center of attention. Kurt, who had been actively courted by the same winemakers only a few months earlier, was politely acknowledged, but little more, at least from the Napa crowd.

It was odd, and uncomfortable, yet there was an element that he welcomed. Blaine invited him not as a wine critic, but as a his guest, his plus-one, his partner — without having said so in so many words. While their inner circle of friends were well-aware of their relationship status and living arrangements, it was not something that either one had exactly advertised publicly.

And while Blaine had rejected the honor of being named _Bacchus_ for the event, he had agreed — with some needling from Santana — to represent Sonoma in the joint toast to a successful harvest made by one representative from each county.

With the orchestra of spoons clinking crystal stemware, Blaine raised a glass.

"I've been asked to say a few words," he said. "It's been quite a year for all of us, and no matter what our differences may be in geography or business models or competition, there is something we share: a love for fine wine, for this art. I'm honored to count you as my peers. So let's raise a glass to the winemakers:

We gather again to honor our harvest and our hard work. To honor our community. To honor the wine that holds us together. 

> May the season provide us all an abundant harvest;
> 
> May the bottle offer you the drink of the gods from above;
> 
> May the table feed you a hearty meal;
> 
> And may the night warm you with love.

He looked directly at Kurt and raised the glass to his lips.

Sebastian then stepped forward, head topped with a fresh laurel, carrying a golden goblet, and eyed Blaine, then Kurt. But he stuck to the business at hand after that, acknowledging his neighbors to the west, and honoring the just-completed harvest with a toast of his own. 

"We have the most recent offering of our regional wines to sample — and many others that are far more drinkable at this point," he said to laughter. "Enjoy!"

Food service completed, the real business of the evening was at hand — sampling new, too-young wines from across the valley, along with some serious drinking of some more than serious vintages donated by each winemaker in attendance.

"You should like this," Blaine whispered to Kurt. "Some of the best of the best, and a sneak peek into what you'll be reviewing a few years from now."

The music stepped up from light classical to classic soul with a thumping beat. The room picked up its pace, its rhythm and its heat as guests waved off their earlier pretense of decorum. Some wandered on to the dance floor. Others gathered at a corner grape stomp which had been largely bypassed by the early, sober crowd. But as the evening drew on and inhibitions dropped, they ignored the damage done to designer clothes as well as to reputation and dove in, sometimes gripping and grinding to the music.

"And this is why I do this at the house," Blaine said, steering Kurt toward the mini barrels of fresh wine.

They sampled several fresh young wines in small sample glasses. The juices were wound tight with youth, but hinted at their future growth potential: lush, deep Meritage; bright Zinfandel; rich Cabernet.

"I know what you're thinking and no," Blaine said, grinning slightly.

"What?" Kurt said, savoring a particularly interesting northern Napa Cabernet.

"No, you can't take notes."

"I wouldn't dare," Kurt said, narrowing his eyes.

"But you thought about it."

"Maybe for a minute. Imagine reviewing these in a few years and having notes from tonight to refer back to."

"Kurt..."

"I know."

"Just enjoy it, okay? This is a social night, not a work night. Let's sample some of the good stuff."

He steered them toward Dalton's wines, where a dark Cab-Merlot blend was being poured. Kurt gave Blaine an uncomfortable look.

"It's supposed to be good," Blaine assured him.

"I think I'll go get a glass of that coastal Pinot," Kurt said, leaving Blaine alone at the Dalton table.

"So you two aren't actually glued together?" a voice said behind him.

Blaine took his wine and turned around.

"And how are you, Sebastian?"

"Apparently not as good as you."

"We're not going to start this again, are we?" 

"Since when can't we have a little fun, Blaine? I'm just being cordial."

"Is that what it is?"

Sebastian smirked, and picked up a glass.

"Cheers Blaine. To victory, however fleeting."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"I'm just saying it's been a good year for you: the title, the man. But how long does that last?"

"Sebastian, stop. I'm with Kurt now."

"Precisely — now. But what about later? How long do you expect him to stick around, anyway? That year of his is nearly up."

Blaine had been concentrating on the contents of his glass, but looked up to see Kurt across the room. He appeared to be engaged in light conversation, but his eyes were trained on the Dalton table.

Sebastian stepped alongside Blaine, swirling the wine in his glass and glancing at Kurt.

"He hasn't moved here, not really. He's still an outsider — a New Yorker, which is exactly what he'll be again in a few months."

Blaine couldn't acknowledge anything Sebastian was saying. He wanted to argue, to tell him he was wrong. But the fact of the matter was that Kurt had said nothing of staying, and he had even referenced his "return to regular duties" in a recent column.

"You know I'm right. Really, when you think about it, what you have with him isn't much different than what you had with me. It's just a year instead of a week. Face it, he's a free agent on a one-year contract."

When Blaine finally looked at Sebastian, it was with eyes pierced with rage. 

"Don't..." he warned.

"Don't what?" 

Kurt moved across the floor as he saw the tension between the two rivals flaring, and he arrived at Blaine's elbow perhaps just in time to stop a fight.

"He was just telling me not to forget to try his new Zin," Sebastian said with a gratuitous smile. "How are you, Kurt?"

"Fine."

"Good. Well, I think I'll go try that, Blaine. And don't forget what I said."

Blaine stared ahead blankly as Sebastian walked away.

"What was that about?" Kurt asked.

"Nothing worth dwelling on," Blaine said absently.

"It hardly looked like nothing. It looked like you wanted to hit him."

"I always want to hit him," Blaine said, still watching Sebastian work the room.

"He wasn't..."

"No, he wasn't. Just being his usual self, which is bad enough." 

The sound of Otis Redding filled the cave. Blaine cocked his head to the side, listening for a moment, registering the familiar tune.

"Dance with me?"

Kurt took Blaine's hand and followed him to the center of the dance floor, surrounded by swaying couples. 

He wrapped his arms loosely around Blaine's neck as they swayed to the music. From time-to-time, Blaine sang along softly.

[ _Don't make me stop now_ ](http://girliesportsjunkie.tumblr.com/post/49713264115)

[ _No baby_ ](http://girliesportsjunkie.tumblr.com/post/49713264115)

[ _I'm down on my knees_ ](http://girliesportsjunkie.tumblr.com/post/49713264115)

[ _Please, don't make me stop now_ ](http://girliesportsjunkie.tumblr.com/post/49713264115)

[ _..._ ](http://girliesportsjunkie.tumblr.com/post/49713264115)

[ _And I can't stop now_ ](http://girliesportsjunkie.tumblr.com/post/49713264115)

[ _Don't make me stop now_ ](http://girliesportsjunkie.tumblr.com/post/49713264115)

[ _Please, please don't make me stop now_ ](http://girliesportsjunkie.tumblr.com/post/49713264115)

He stopped himself and took a deep breath before the song continued into its finale, a pleading, repeated chorus of _"I love you"_. Instead, he clenched his eyes tight, and pulled Kurt close.

*****

They left the party long after night had become early morning, a sense of strain building between them. They had exchanged few words after the moment with Sebastian, and fewer still in the back of the Town Car.

Blaine glanced over at Kurt occasionally, only to see him looking out the window or checking email on his phone. When Kurt looked over at Blaine, he saw him fidgeting with his cuffs or tapping on the window.

"Are you ever going to be able to say it?" Kurt asked, looking out at the passing vineyards and sounding for all the world as if he was speaking to himself.

"What?"

"Sometimes I think you love me. Sometimes I'm almost sure of it, even though you've never said it. But I think you do. You've done things that seem... loving. Then I remember that you've never said it, not once."

"Kurt..."

Kurt finally looked at him, met his eyes, and Blaine looked away.

"Exactly."

They got home and climbed into bed in silence without so much as a "goodnight."  Kurt rolled onto his side, his back to Blaine, and pulled the sheets tight to his chest, tucking his face to his hands and closing his eyes.

Blaine watched him drift off, and pressed back building tears.

Kurt was wrong. Blaine knew his heart, knew it well.

He also knew that in just a couple of months, Kurt would be gone.

Blaine curled in tight behind him, wrapping his arms around his waist and snuggling into the base of his neck. Then he waited, quietly, patiently. He waited in stillness until the moment he was certain that Kurt’s breathing had evened out to a slow, hypnotic rhythm.

And then, quieter than the still of the pre-dawn morning, he murmured the words he had held in for months.

" _I love you_."

_****_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much, everyone, for the support, kind notes and good vibes. Special thanks as always to iconicklaine, who understands why I write short but encourages me to do just a little more; to sillygleekt, who appropriately changes commas to dashes and doesn't bat an eyelash when I change them back; and to buckeyegrrl, whose art is forever superior to my lollipop trees and stick figures.


	23. Chapter 21

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As this story gets closer and closer to an end, my continued thanks to iconicklaine, sillygleekt and buckeyegrrl, each of whom has had and continues to have a tremendous impact on what you see. And of course thanks to all who are reading Sotto Voce and letting me know about it. Your notes and support mean the world to me.

It had been weeks since the crush, since the nightly babysitting of tanks of fermenting juice, of staying up into the early morning hours to push the rising cap of wine must back down and through the tanks of Rhapsody's youngest vintage.

Kurt stayed up with Blaine most nights, and visited other wineries undergoing the same process by day. Within a couple of weeks — the bulk of fermentation behind it — the winery undertook a second round of intensive labor. Blaine oversaw the pressing of juice off the skins so it could be poured into freshly cleaned tanks and barrels for a first racking, letting it rest for a couple of months before it was strained off and poured anew into a fresh set of tanks and barrels.

This was the treasured down time — though every winery had plenty to do while its maturing wines took a winter's rest, especially Rhapsody.

Kurt used the free time to edit and polish some lingering columns, and convinced Blaine to step away from the tanks and the computer long enough to venture out to some of the region's more obscure tasting rooms, or to enjoy a picnic by the reservoir. He impressed himself with his negotiating skills, betting Blaine a night in San Francisco and a blowjob that Quinn would insist on last-minute copy within 24 hours of Thanksgiving. To his professional consternation but personal delight, he won the bet.

Otherwise, Blaine spent time with a topographic map and his laptop, and began planning the vineyard extension on his new property. He also visited UC Davis several times, interviewing prospects to replace Diego, none of whom quite fit the bill. They were plenty bright, and some were exceptionally talented, but he had yet to meet someone whom he felt had the feel for managing a vineyard, and who didn't have ambitions to leave for a bigger name and a bigger paycheck in a few years' time.

After a particularly long day of errands and interviews, he came home to find Kurt in the guest house on his computer, appearing to be hard at work.

"Got a minute?" he asked.

"Always," Kurt said, snapping the laptop shut.

"I was thinking... It's the quiet season, and almost the holidays." He walked into the room and  leaned against the wall. "The first push is done, and I've got the plan for the new vineyard finished."

"That's great, Blaine."

"So I was thinking that we should take some time off together. We should get away, maybe over the holidays."

Kurt looked at him, but didn't respond.

"We could head down the coast, like you talked about in August, maybe go to Big Sur or Carmel."

Kurt remained impassive, paying attention, but not reacting.

"Or we could go to the city, spend the holidays in San Francisco or LA if you're missing that."

Kurt's chin dipped.

"Or we could do something bigger. We could do sunshine — Hawaii, or Mexico — whatever you want, Kurt."

"Blaine..."

"I just think it would be good for us to have some time together, without work..."

"Blaine..."

"Wherever you want to go, Kurt..."

"Blaine, stop. I've been meaning to talk to you about this." 

Kurt's eyes stayed riveted to Blaine's nose, falling just shy of eye contact. 

"I'm going home for the holidays."

Blaine's eyes shone bright with frenetic energy, but his body slumped slightly.

"New York?"

"No — Ohio," Kurt walked over to Blaine, taking his hand. "I haven't seen my family in nearly a year, and my dad's been dropping hints."

"I see."

"Don't read too much into it, Blaine. I just don't want to let them down."

Blaine dropped the subject. 

He didn't raise it again, but his mood turned decidedly cloudy over the next few weeks.  He retreated into himself, once again becoming that quiet, volatile man Kurt had first met on Rhapsody's dirt access road. 

****

Kurt had 12 hours before his 8 a.m. flight, and was still figuring out how to pack a winter wardrobe into his smallish hard-sided suitcase. Between concentrating on squeezing _just one more sweater_ into the luggage and the music playing on his laptop, he neither saw nor heard Blaine walk up behind him.

"I love this song," Blaine said.

His music feed had queued up [some old, acoustic Pearl Jam](https://soundcloud.com/raquelation/pearl-jam-just-breathe). It wasn't exactly Kurt's regular playlist, Blaine thought. Kurt's music was the sound of the city, of thumping beats and sing-along pop, of dance clubs and catwalks. Blaine knew that when he wasn't around, Kurt often queued up club music. He'd seen it in the recent history on his satellite feed when he came home at night. But acoustic rock? Songs like this were in his playlist, not Kurt's.

"I'm never quite sure if it's sad or hopeful," Kurt said wistfully. "But it always kind of reminds me of that vineyard of yours."

If the song was a surprise to Blaine, the commentary was a shock. The song wasn't accidental.

"Maybe because it sounds rustic," Blaine responded, taking the safe route.

Kurt nodded. "Maybe that's it," he said, returning his attention to the overpacked suitcase.

Blaine folded his arms across his chest, perhaps listening to the song but concentrating on the neatly-packed Tumi.

"Kurt?"

"Hmm?"

"Let me take you to the airport."

"I booked a car."

"Cancel the car."

"It's not necessary. You have other things to do."

"Not really."

"It's early."

"I'm used to it."

Satisfied that he had finally compiled both a wardrobe that would work as well as one as well as one that would allow the bag to shut, Kurt closed the case and set it on the floor.

"Blaine, I'll make you a deal. Sleep in. Enjoy your down time. And if you really want to, you can pick me up for my return flight."

Blaine paused to briefly consider his words, but dove headlong despite his better judgement into the question that had eaten at him for weeks.

" _Is_ there a return flight?"

"What?" Kurt turned to stand face-to-face with Blaine. "Of course there's a return flight. This is a holidays-with-the-family trip. My assignment's not even over yet."

Kurt raised his hand to Blaine's forehead, playing with a uncooperative curl, twirling it in his fingers. 

"Will you tell me what's wrong? What's going on in there?" he asked, tapping Blaine's forehead with his index finger. "Do we need to talk about this?"

Blaine reached around Kurt's back and slowly pulled him closer, until he could rest his chin to Kurt's shoulder. But he said nothing. They stood like that for a moment while Blaine sought comfort and Kurt searched for reassuring words.

"I'm back in 12 days — January 3rd." Kurt said. "And on January 4th, I'm meeting with my boss in Napa. Does that sound like someone who's not coming back?"

Blaine pulled his head back, finally making eye contact.

"Quinn's here?"

"The one and only. She'll be in San Francisco for New Year's and then she's heading over here for a couple of meetings — including one with me."

"What about?"

"We do this every year. It's her chance to put me in the hot seat and quiz me about whether I have a plan for the future. This time, it's a little earlier than usual because she's in town."

"Is this where that contest of yours came from?"

"You got it."

"And this time?"

The question chilled a conversation that had only started to thaw.

"She'll want to know what my plans are beyond the _Year in the Valley_ project."

Blaine looked down again, taking a deep breath.

"And do you know what that is?"

"I always seem to figure something out."

Blaine pinched the bridge of his nose between his thumb and his index finger, and sighed. It wasn't the answer he was looking for.

"Maybe we do need to talk. Maybe we should have talked about this _months_ ago," he finally blurted out. 

"Blaine?"

"Do you have _any_ idea what your plans are? Have you talked to Quinn about it at all? Apparently not. Have we talked about it? No. But did you talk about getting back to your regular duties _in your column_? Yes. What am I supposed to think? We finally have a chance to spend some time together — without work — and you up and leave."

"It's the holidays, Blaine. My family..."

"And I'll be spending the holidays alone. Let me ask you something. Do I embarrass you?"

"What?"

"Do they even know about me?"

"What are you talking about?"

Blaine shut his eyes, and shook his head as he let it out.

"Is this just how you're biding time? Is this thing between us just stop-gap?"

"What? No! Where are you getting these ideas?"

"I would have gone with you, you know. I told you we could go anywhere you wanted. If that was Ohio, fine. I would have gone. But you didn't even ask, Kurt."

Speechless, Kurt's jaw went slack. He blinked, and shook his head in a way that made clear that Blaine's words had their intended impact..

"But it's _Ohio_. I didn't think..."

"No. You didn't," Blaine said, his voice icy.

"But there's the phone and text and Skype. Can we just, not... not do this? I don't want to spend our last night together for a couple of weeks fighting." His voice softened. "Please?"

Kurt lifted Blaine's chin with his hand, so he could look into his eyes, but Blaine wouldn't meet his gaze. 

"Please, Blaine."

He kissed him gently, hand on chin, eyes open. 

Blaine didn't respond, not at first.

But as Kurt pulled back, Blaine raised his hand to cup Kurt's cheek, and pulled him back slowly, brushing their noses together. He stayed there, breathing Kurt in, until he finally tilted his head just slightly, giving him room for his lips to glance across Kurt's mouth. They scarcely touched at first, but he gave in to the slow, comfortable build. They gradually deepened the kiss, Kurt persistently licking at Blaine's lips, a request to open that stopped short of urgent but surged well past _gentile_. When they broke apart, Blaine kept his eyes closed for an extra beat.

"I'm sorry we're not spending the holidays together. But you know what? Maybe this is what we need," Kurt said, his tone gentle. "Maybe we could use a few days to clear our heads and think. And when I come back, we'll sit down and sort this thing out. Just not right now, okay? Can't we just _be_ tonight? Please?"

Blaine nodded slowly. his face focused on some unspoken _thing_. His mind had wandered off and his eyes drifted blankly to a corner of the room for several moments before he finally spoke. 

"Kurt?"

"Yeah?"

Kurt drew soft circles on Blaine's back — a silent, successful effort to calm him. His quiet response showed that his emotions were back on level ground, even if his thoughts seemed to have moved on to another neighborhood.

"The next time you listen to Aretha Franklin, could you stick to the uptempo stuff?"

The playlist had shifted to [a bittersweet ballad](http://fizy.com/s/3x2yoi), a song that begged for an embrace, a teary slow dance. 

**_Just let me love you tonight_ **

**_Forget about tomorrow_ **

**_My darling_ **

**_Won't you hold me tight_ **

**_And never let_ **

**_Never let me go_ **

Kurt's arms wrapped around Blaine's waist, gliding in comforting strokes along Blaine's spine. He rested his chin on Blaine's shoulder and let the song wash over them. 

"You don't like this song?" he said, drawing a line of baby kisses along Blaine's neck. 

**_Dry your eyes_ **

**_No tears no sorrow_ **

**_Cling to me_ **

**_With all your might_ **

**_And never let me go_ **

Blaine rolled his head back, granting Kurt unencumbered access and a strong hint for _more_ , taking a deep breath.

"I love Aretha," he murmured. "But so... damned... sad."

**_A million times or more_ **

**_We said we'd never never never never part_ **

**_Oh but lately_ **

**_Lately I find_ **

**_That you're a stranger_ **

**_A stranger in my heart_ **

Blaine let his hand drift slowly downward, gliding over Kurt's ear, caressing his neck, finally resting flat against Kurt's chest, his fingers trailing along the seams of the button placket on Kurt's snug shirt.

"Kiss me," Kurt sighed.

He nipped at Blaine's jaw, tonguing at the evening stubble that had laid claim to his cheeks. He followed it to Blaine's mouth, parting Blaine's insistent lips with his tongue, moaning as he deepened his kiss. He pulled away just briefly, long enough to breathe out his words.

"Undress me," he whispered.

Blaine's fingers danced a staccato rhythm down Kurt's shirt, popping free button after button until he reached Kurt's waist. Blaine brought his other hand around to make fast work of Kurt's belt buckle, then popped the brass button atop Kurt's jeans free.

With one finger, he traced along the zipper — down, then up, then down again until his palm settled and squeezed.

"Don't tease me," Kurt murmured.

His hand glided back to the top of the zipper, and pulled. He looked into Kurt's eyes.

"Bed," Kurt insisted.

He stepped back to the mattress pulling Blaine along with him and sat, leaning back as Blaine kneeled down alongside his legs. Blaine started with Kurt's shoes, then socks, then pulled his own T-shirt over his head as Kurt began to wiggle out of his jeans. Blaine stopped him, covering Kurt's hands with his own. 

"Let me."

**_Give me give me give me_ **

**_Give me the right_ **

**_In summer or in springtime_ **

**_To tell the world_ **

**_That you're all and you're every bit of mine_ **

**_And you'll never_ **

**_Oh never let me go_ **

**_No you'll never let me go_ **

****

Kurt slapped at the nightstand to try to keep his 4 a.m. alarm from waking Blaine. He climbed gingerly out of bed, waited to turn on the bathroom light until he had shut the door behind him and dressed in the dark in clothes he had set out the night before.

He stepped quietly from the house when the car arrived an hour later without trying to rouse Blaine from his slumber. Kurt would call later instead, and let him know that he had arrived in Ohio safely.

Only when he heard the front door close and the car drive away did Blaine allow himself to open his eyes and pull Kurt's pillow tight to his chest.

****

It was the first time in memory that Blaine resented having down time, though he did his best to fill it.

He actively looked for things to keep himself busy, tinkering with equipment and rearranging furniture. He began work on the new section of the vineyard, plowing and tapering and setting markers for irrigation. He spent Christmas with Diego and his family, who had insisted that Blaine not eat alone on the holiday.

He called his brother, who was talkative but poor company, and put in a perfunctory call to his parents, who were vacationing in France. 

He spent considerable time on the Square — if not in Santana's office, then in his favorite bar, sipping Scotch and chatting with Patty and other locals. 

He rationalized his leaving Kurt alone to his family time and to his thoughts as following Kurt's advice. He made an exception for Christmas, which started with a text and ended with a long but subdued phone call, and New Year's Eve, when he took Kurt's call amid the noise of a party on the Square.

A day later, Kurt texted him again.

2:28p Kurt: Sober?

2:30p Blaine: Indeed.

2:31p Kurt: Recovered?

2:33p Blaine: Not funny.

2:34p Kurt: :/

2:35p Blaine: I'm fine.

2:37p Kurt: About the airport...

2:37p Blaine: yes?

2:40p Kurt: don't worry about picking me up.

2:40p Blaine: ??

2:41p Kurt: Q bumped up our mtg

2:41p Blaine: ??

2:44p Kurt: staying in SF on the 3rd. getting ride w/Q next day. see you on the 4th.

****

Of all the times Kurt had visited The Palace Hotel — for tastings, banquets, interviews and an array of overstuffed events — he had never seen it so quiet. The historic hotel, usually abuzz with business deals and black tie events, appeared to be suffering its own post New Year's hangover. It made it easy to spot Quinn, blonde hair pulled back into a sleek chignon and a glass of Sauvignon Blanc in her well-manicured fingertips.

"Just in time for lunch," she said, smiling and standing, awaiting her welcome hug.

"I ate on the plane — unfortunately," Kurt said. "But I'll have one of those," he added to the waiter, pointing at Quinn's wine glass.

They talked pleasantries, holiday tales and family run-ins, killing time reestablishing the well-honed rhythm of their conversations.

"So, how is he?" 

"Hmm?"

"Your winemaker."

"That may require another round," Kurt mumbled.

"Trouble in paradise?"

"I don't know. Maybe. I guess so. Maybe." 

Kurt shook his head and scratched at his temple.

"It was so easy at first. We just slipped into this... life. We didn't really talk about the fact that it... that..."

"That it's finite?"

Quinn cut to the quick, leaving Kurt stunned and silent.

"Sweetie, we all make that mistake. We've got a present that's so bright that we don't think about the future, or when we realize that the future may take us in an unexpected direction, we set it aside. But let me tell you from experience, the longer you put it off, the worse it's going to be."

"I get the feeling we're not talking about Blaine any more," he said. "You going to see her?"

"Absolutely. We're good now, Kurt. We talked things out in June, put it all on the table. It got ugly for a while there."

"And?"

"And then it got pretty damn beautiful."

"You're not..."

"We did, but we're not any more. Call it a sweet goodbye — making up for the last time. We both know it won't work, but at least we ended it right this time. You know, sometimes the happy ending is knowing that it was good while it lasted, and ending it well."

"Oh god."

"Kurt?"

"You think I need to end it?"

"Weren't you always intending to?"

****

Their lunch became dinner, their conversation spanning hours and meals and drinks.

And when Kurt prepared to leave, to go home to Sonoma, Quinn insisted on a little more, some quality time shopping. She monopolized his day, turning Kurt into her personal Sherpa of Union Square.

He took advantage of a moment alone while Quinn shopped the Agent Provocateur boutique to try to reach Blaine, but he didn't pick up his phone or answer texts. At least he would know about the delay, Kurt thought.

Hours later, the day largely shot and the sun sinking in the west, Quinn summoned her driver.

"You don't mind if he drops me off first?" she asked, though Kurt knew it wasn't a question at all. So they detoured to the Carneros Inn before circling back to Sonoma. The sky was dark and clouding over by the time they pulled up to Rhapsody.

The house looked empty and dark. _Maybe he went out for dinner_ , Kurt thought as he dropped his bags in the foyer and began looking around.

"Blaine?"

There was no response, but Kurt saw the soft glow of a light down the hall, near the den.

"Blaine?"

The room was illuminated by the light of Blaine's laptop, which was queued up to the _Taste_ Magazine web site, to Kurt's last column. Centered on the screen was the passage where Kurt mentioned moving on to regular duties.

 _Shit_.

As his eyes adjusted to the dark, Kurt finally made out the silhouette of Blaine's head. He was seated on the couch, slumped into it, sipping at a glass of amber liquid. A half-empty bottle of Scotch sat on the table in front of him.

"Blaine."

"At your service."

"I'm home."

"Interesting word choice."

"You've been drinking."

"Ten points. I'll take Potent Potables for 200, Alex."

"You're drunk."

"You're astute."

"I wasn't planning on this right now, but we need to talk," Kurt circled around to face Blaine. "We need to talk about where this is going, Blaine."

"You want to talk about this now? With me? Why bother? You've already told your readers. You're out of here."

"What's gotten into you?"

"Scotch," Blaine said, raising his glass. "Scotch and a good stiff belt of reality."

"Baby, don't..."

" _Baby_?!? You're going to 'baby' me? Is that how it works? Avoid the issue for months and then when I get upset you 'baby' me and use _that voice_ because you know I'll fall for it _every fucking time?_ "

"Blaine, don't."

"Don't what? Don't talk about it? Just avoid the subject, just a little longer, so you can slip out of town without a fight?"

"Blaine—"

"Hey, it was a pretty good deal when you think about it. It's even cheaper than AmeriSuites and you get laid whenever you want. What hotel would offer you _that_ package?"

"Don't."

"You know, maybe I should be proud of this. I'm Kurt Hummel's _boy toy_!"

"Blaine, you're drunk. And I'm not going to argue with you like this."

"More avoidance."

"Oh really? You want to talk avoidance? How about we talk about the elephant in the room, Blaine? How about we talk about the reason I haven't talked about the future with you?"

Blaine stared at him.

"God Blaine, have you done anything, said anything, to make me think I should stay? Have you once, have you ever even hinted that you love me? Because I've been saying it for months, and I don't seem to remember you ever reciprocating, even after I asked you about it." 

Blaine opened his mouth as if to speak, but nothing came out.

"I tell you I love you and you change the subject. Or maybe you kiss me or hold me. Oh, and sometimes when I say it, you just want to fuck me," Kurt hissed, unable to hold back any longer. "Is that how you say you love someone, Blaine? Because maybe I just missed something."

Kurt landed his punch. 

Blaine breathed heavily through his mouth, unable to attach words to his blurred thoughts.

"Enough," Kurt said. "I'm done. No more."

Blaine wasn't sure if it was the way the words slapped at him, or if it was just the Scotch, but he had to squint to focus his increasingly blurred vision. He set his palm against the seat of the couch to steady himself, and tried to let Kurt's words pass harmlessly.

"I guess it's a good thing I didn't unpack." Kurt pulled his phone out of his pocket. "I'm calling the driver back. I'll send someone to pick up the rest of my things."

 

And with that, Kurt took his phone and his suitcase and walked out the door. 

****


	24. Chapter 22

The Sonoma Renaissance was a far cry from AmeriSuites. From the grapevine sculptures of its foyer to its well-stocked wine bar and private spa, the hotel dripped with laid-back elegance.

It also wasn't home.

Kurt had checked in to a junior suite, rationalizing that six months of living rent-free had more than saved the _Taste_ budget enough to pay for the upgraded accommodations, at least for a few weeks. After that, he hoped to talk Quinn into cutting the assignment short and letting him return to New York before spring.

The sooner the better, he reasoned.

Yet he couldn't leave, not entirely. He had every reason to move over to Napa — the volume of wineries, the abundant hotels, the distance from Glen Ellen. But he couldn't quite bring himself to do it. Sonoma had become a familiar part of his routine, a slow-ticking clock by which he had recalibrated his life. Carefully planned and timed, he could still enjoy restaurants on the Square or visits with Santana without too great a risk of an awkward run-in.

Lunch? Lunch was workable. Dinner, less so. Evening cocktails were out of the question.

So he scheduled lunch, under the guise of advance planning the 2014 _Taste_ Challenge.

"Like _hell_ that's what you want to talk about."

Santana was hearing nothing of it.

"I know what you really want to talk about and the answer is that the both of you had better get your collective shit together soon or I may have to take drastic measures, because I'm getting a little tired of this."

Kurt pursed his lips, poked at his salad and said nothing.

"He spent some quality time around here while you were out of town."

"And?"

"Our boy was miserable without you. I couldn't get rid of him — like a mopey puppy."

"Maybe he should have said something about it."

"He said plenty about it, once he got liquored up, which has been a little more often than I'm comfortable with. He's _pining_ , Kurt. It's not attractive."

"Sure, he feels that way now that I'm gone."

"Don't kid yourself," Santana said sharply. "He's felt that way for ages. What the hell is up with you two, any way? I've seen him more in the past three weeks than I had in the previous three months. He's spending all his spare time over at the bar and he's acting like his dog just ran away."

"It just... wasn't working out," Kurt mumbled, staring at his plate.

"Mm-hmm. Sure. If you ask me, you're both idiots."

"What? What did he tell you?"

" _Exactly_ what you just told me, which tells me you're _both_ lying. This has to do with your job, doesn't it?"

"I don't know."

"Liar."

Kurt grunted and glared, and went back to stabbing random pieces of arugula with his fork.

"Maybe you should have given him more of a chance."

"Why? He wrote this relationship off before it even started."

"I call bullshit, Hummel. After our little friend got himself good and drunk the other night — and I'm the one that pulled the short straw and had to get him home  — he kept mumbling something about all relationships being date-stamped and that he wouldn't be anyone's vacation boy toy. It was a little incoherent, but I think I got the gist of it."

Kurt focused on the table top and shut his eyes. "I don't know..."

"Again, bullshit. Had you two talked about this, like, _at all_?

"Look, I know you two are close. I know there's this _thing_ , but I've also known him a lot longer than you, and if you haven't figured this out yet, then let me spell it out for you: Blaine isn't like you. He doesn't express every thought that pops into his head. He's usually pretty quiet. The fact that he was in that contest? Participated in all those other activities? Invited you into his life? That speaks volumes, Kurt. And the fact that you didn't leave Sonoma, that you spend so much time on the Square? That says something, too."

Kurt allowed himself a moment — just a moment — to lock eyes with Santana before he settled back into his tabletop stare.

"You two communicate, normally pretty well, so I don't know who dropped the ball here. I think you're both fools for letting this get so out of hand because you're obviously miserable without each other." 

" _What_?"

"That man changed his life for you. He might not have said the words, but did you give him any credit for his actions? And let's put this in context, shall we? You wrote about 'going back to your regular duties' without even having the conversation with him? Come on, Kurt. He was an idiot for holding back, but you're no saint here."

Kurt meant to look angry. He _should_ look angry, he thought, but instead his face wore the look of  someone who'd just had the wind knocked out of him.

"He's losing you. He's losing Diego. He feels alone. And yeah, he's done things that contributed to those losses..."

"What do you mean?"

"Do I have to spell this out for you?"

"What did you mean about Diego?"

"He didn't tell you, did he? Damn him. Kurt, Diego's going to school because Blaine's paying for it. After that fundraiser of yours, Blaine told him that it was time for him to go out and get himself a seat at the table. The guy had the skills but not the degree. It was the only thing holding him back, so Blaine opened the door for him."

"Blaine helped him with the paperwork, made a few calls on his behalf, got him a scholarship and is paying the rest of the bills."

Kurt's jaw dropped, just a little. He raised his hand to his mouth, then rested it against his forehead.

"Yeah, he's really an asshole, isn't he, Kurt?"

Kurt silently measured her words, then made a half-hearted effort to claim that they carried little weight.

"I don't know what that has to do with anything," he said. "We weren't in the same place."

"Oh, don't give me that crap. He's miserable and you're _obviously_ the life of the party right now. The point is this — for better or for worse, Blaine doesn't always say everything that's on his mind. But sometimes, actions speak louder than words."

"It was just a mistake."

"Let me tell you something about mistakes. Eight years, Kurt. For eight years I lived with regret and misplaced hate because Quinn and I didn't talk it out, because we were both too stubborn and chicken shit to hash out our issues. And now that we have, it's so much better."

"And you're not together."

"No, we're not, and we shouldn't be. We both know that. There's still plenty of chemistry, and we more than worked _that_ out, but a long-term thing is impossible for us. We had our moment, and then we had a couple more. And we can live in peace now that we've got this behind us."

"That doesn't sound very encouraging."

"I didn't say it was impossible for _you_."

Kurt set his fork down and looked at Santana like he was trying to solve a riddle.

****

Blaine shuffled around the house, rearranging things: a chair moved next to a window to take in the view, a picture shifted to a new wall, a commemorative plaque from the _Taste_ Challenge removed from the office and stored in a box.

He walked the new property, comparing it to his vineyard plans, and began clearing high-growth weeds from what would soon be rows of seedling stock. He ordered supplies, rented a truck and made a run down the valley to pick up loads of irrigation and trellising supplies.

He dug out an old Frisbee and threw it repeatedly for KD. It killed a good 45 minutes, until the energetic sheepdog was distracted by a much more interesting flock of crows.

Then he moved on to the barn, cataloguing equipment for the second time in two weeks. He sterilized the stainless tanks that no longer held hundreds of gallons of young wine before sealing them off for the season. He scrubbed the crusher destemmer that had already been cleaned at the conclusion of harvest. He washed and stored the bins, buckets and barrels that had been used to store grapes and must through early fermentation.

Some of the work was necessary. Most of it consisted of redundant, mindless tasks that allowed his brain to go blank, if only for a little while.

He moved on to the caves, inspecting the racked oak barrels that didn't need attention for another six weeks. He reasoned that there could be leaks, or a stray barrel of Zinfandel commingled with Syrah, but they had been racked with precision.

With a loud chirp, his phone lit up with an incoming text.

Santana  3:26p: He's at the Renaissance.

"Damn it. Drop it, Santana."

He shoved the phone back into his pocket and readied to leave — nearly stumbling over an  unmarked case of recently-bottled wine. The bottles were clean; the labels had been delivered by the printing company Christmas week, right about the time his life had gone to hell.

Blaine leaned against the racked barrels, then eased himself to the floor. He sat there for close to an hour, looking blankly at the cardboard box and letting his mind drift and fill with the thoughts he'd worked so hard to block out.

The bottles had been intentionally left blank, and set in an inconspicuous spot so as not to gain notice. In the upset of the last several weeks, he had forgotten about them, leaving the labels in the barn.

In a moment of resolve, he finally rose to his feet, grabbed a bottle from the box and took a corkscrew from a nearby table along with one of the tasting glasses kept in the cave for monitoring and sampling. 

He opened the bottle, and poured a small taste into the glass. He held it to the light, revealing a deep, velvety crimson. He swirled the juice, watching defined legs drift down the inner walls of the glass. He placed his nose into the glass and inhaled, then took a small taste. The wine was young, its tannins wound tight, but it offered hints of complex things to come: berries, plum, lilac, leather and the slightest suggestion of smoke.

Blaine focused on the glass, then granted himself a moment's relief from his state of a mind, a break he hadn't granted himself in weeks. He let himself smile. 

He sealed the bottle, placed it back in the cardboard container and then carried the case back to the barn, where he found his newest set of wine labels and a spare wooden wine crate, the type that larger wineries used for gift boxes. 

He moved without much of a plan as he grabbed the keys to his truck and raced down the dirt road toward town.

****

Kurt settled into his room after his unsettling conversation with Santana. She had really overstepped this time. She'd played with his head, and now he didn't quite know which way was up. He knew this much: He needed to talk to Quinn, and soon.

Kurt 3:21p: Q, I need to talk about coming back. When can you book a block of time?

It didn't take long for an answer.

Quinn 3:22p: All tied up today. Tomorrow 3pm ET?

It would have to do. 

He plugged his phone into its charger, grabbed his iPad and headed for the foyer lounge.

****

Blaine called once, but got no response. He figured that would be the case, so he didn't bother trying to text or call again. Instead, he knew he could call in a favor from his friend in the hotel's wine bar who could easily secure a quick glance at the room log.

He drove in silence, biting his lower lip and tapping the steering wheel as he followed the narrow, winding road toward the Sonoma city center. He pulled into the first open spot he could find in the hotel parking lot, picked up the small wooden crate from the passenger seat, and made his way to the lobby bar.

As luck would have it, he wouldn't need to call in that favor. Sitting in a back corner, nose deep in his iPad, sat Kurt.

Blaine saw him immediately: Dressed down in dark jeans and a vest over a snug, long-sleeved T,  and engrossed in work — or possibly a gossip column — a glass of what looked to be Pinot Noir close at hand. Whatever he was doing, he was riveted to it, and didn't see Blaine approach. It wasn't until he was standing across the table that Kurt looked up, and blanched.

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to startle you," Blaine said. His voice was ragged but soft, and was a tip-off to his frayed nerves.

"What are you doing here?"

"Looking for you."

"I don't want to do this here."

"We can go somewhere..." 

"What I mean is, I don't want to do this," Kurt said, powering down the tablet. "There's a reason you haven't heard from me. I don't want to talk to you."

It may have been the afternoon light streaming through the western lobby windows, or it may have been Blaine trying to choose the right words, but he squinted and tilted his head in a way that suggested he wasn't buying it.

"If you don't want to talk, that's okay. But would you listen? Just for a few minutes? Because I need to apologize for..." Blaine swallowed. He could feel the tension rising in his throat. "I need to apologize for that night. I was drunk and I was terrible and the last few weeks have been..."

"Fine. Apology accepted. Now go."

"Kurt, please? Can we just go get a cup of coffee or something? Can we just go somewhere private and talk?"

Kurt looked down at the table, as if considering Blaine's request.

"We're better than this, Kurt. Please."

Kurt raised his eyes to Blaine. He was silent, but something he had said had connected, Blaine was sure. Kurt glanced at his Bluetooth keyboard case, then snapped it shut around the tablet. He shut his eyes and nodded.

"Okay," he said quietly.

****

They ordered coffees and walked across the courtyard slowly and without words, both heads bowed in tension and concentration. They took advantage of the unseasonably warm day to settle on the patio outside Kurt's suite, where they could sit and talk in relative privacy.

They spent long minutes simply sipping at their drinks, neither one quite ready or prepared to be the first to speak.

Kurt bit his lip.

Blaine tapped on his coffee cup.

Both looked around the space, to the chairs, the sparse winter foliage, the densely-lined vineyards in the hills behind the hotel.

Kurt finally broke the silence.

"Why didn't you tell me about Diego?" he said, skirting the issue.

"What?"

"His leaving. College. It was your doing. You arranged for it. You're _paying_ for it. You didn't say anything."

"There wasn't much to say."

"But if you were upset about him leaving..."

"I'm wasn't upset. I'm not... He deserves this. That's all."

"It was kind, Blaine. There was no reason to keep it a secret."

"There was no reason to advertise it. He deserves this. He's as good as any of us — maybe better. He just hasn't had the same breaks, and that's because he doesn't have a diploma."

"But you left yourself without a manager," Kurt said, his tone sympathetic.

"I'll find a way to make it work."

Blaine looked down and kicked at the floor for a moment before getting up the nerve to say what needed to be said.

"I'm sorry, Kurt. I'm so sorry about how I behaved." 

Blaine's eyes were trained squarely on his coffee cup. 

"I swear, I didn't mean those things. I was drunk, I was upset, and I am so, so sorry."

"I hear it's not the only time you said it."

Blaine raised his focus to Kurt's face. Tension wrinkled his brow.

"I may have been drinking a bit while you were away." 

Kurt rotated his cup in slow circles between his hands and nodded.

"You said those things to me when you were drunk. Then you got drunk again and said them to other people. Wouldn't that mean there's some truth to it?"

"I'm sorry. I was so upset when you left. I was lonely," Blaine looked up at the hillside, gazing at the rows of local vines. "I don't remember ever feeling lonely before. I mean I live alone, but I've never felt truly _lonely_ until you left. It had been building for so long, and then you left and..."

"What are you talking about?"

They finally made solid eye contact. Blaine held it, drew strength from it, and spoke from his heart.

"The end. I'm talking about the end. It's been building toward this for months, and the closer it got to the end of your assignment, the more I... the less confident I felt. And we never talked about it. Then you left..."

"I went home..."

"Without me. And I got to thinking that if you didn't want to be with me over the holidays, if you didn't want me around your family, then maybe there was nothing there in the first place."

"That's crazy." 

"In the light of a sober day, that's true. But in the cloud of Scotch, it made perfect sense."

Kurt nodded.

"I'm sorry, too," he said. "I should have spoken up. I should have told you about the holiday plans earlier."

"You should have invited me, unless my craziness was on point."

Kurt looked at Blaine, his eyes softening somewhat, then looked away.

"No, you're right. The moment you talked about going away, I should have invited you. I just didn't know where we stood, and it didn't feel right asking you to meet my family when I didn't have any idea how you felt."

"Couldn't you tell?"

"No. I still can't. Sleeping with someone isn't the same as _loving_ someone, Blaine. And as many times as I told you how I felt, you never said anything. You still haven't."

Blaine cupped his hands to his chin, and took a deep breath.

"I wanted to."

"You say that now..."

"Kurt, I wanted to."

"Why didn't you?"

"Because it would have just made it worse."

Blaine blinked back the tears he could feel building, and he could see his action mirrored on Kurt's face.

"I do love you, Kurt. I do, I _have_ — even if I didn't say it in so many words..."

"You didn't say it at all. How do I know you're not just saying this now that I'm gone?" 

"I love you." Blaine's words were urgent. He reached over to take Kurt's hand for emphasis. 

Kurt sighed and started to pull back, but Blaine hung on until Kurt relaxed into his grasp.

"Why now? You've had months to say something. Why now? I mean, I look at you, and I see that look in your eyes and... I want to believe you. But I know I shouldn't stake this on a look, especially when it's you, looking at me the way you are. It makes me feel weak all over again," Kurt said, leaning in for emphasis. "I just can't help but think this is because I left." 

"I love you. I've loved you for months, and I know I should have said something, but..." Blaine's voice drifted off. He looked around for a moment, let go of Kurt's hand and stood up, walked to a side table, and picked up the box he had been carrying when he first entered the hotel lounge.

"I can prove it."

"What's that?"

"Your Christmas gift. I didn't get a chance to give it to you."

He handed Kurt the small wooden crate.

"Open it."

"You gave me _wine_ for Christmas? _Really_?"

"Just open it."

Kurt slid the cover off to reveal a dark Bordeaux-style bottle of green glass resting in a bed of raffia. The label was black, inscribed with simple, elegant gold script: _Appoggiatura_.

"What is this, Blaine?" 

"It's for you."

"This is new..."

"I made it for you. The bottles you found in the caves that day. I'd tucked them away where I thought you wouldn't notice them." 

"Because it was a new wine?"

"Because it's _your_ wine. I made this for you, for us. It was going to be your Christmas gift. It's good, Kurt. I just sampled it. It's young, and it's wound a little tight right now, but I know it will mellow with age, and the notes that are straining against each other right now are going to complement each other over time. It think it's special. It may be the best thing I've ever done. It's like the grapes just... knew." 

Kurt stared at the bottle, dumbfounded. Blaine must have worked on this new vintage for months, but had never said a word.

"What does it mean?"

"An _appoggiatura_ is what's known as a leaning note. It's a dissonance that resolves in consonance."

Kurt gave him a blank look. It wasn't connecting. 

"In Italian, it means to support something, to be leaned against. 

"Think 'Someone Like You,' Kurt. It's loaded with them. It has this strong visceral impact, and leaves the listener very... emotional. It's the effect of the _appoggiatura_ that the wine is named after."

Kurt turned the bottle over in his hands. The golden script on the front, the familiar Claddagh on the back. The discussion of the blend, and the relevance of its name.

"Yes, but what does it mean?"

"It means you came into my life and you supported me, and left me feeling... so much."

Blaine swallowed, closing his eyes as he tried to control his breath, then opening them in revelation.

"It means I love you. I have for a while now, and I should have told you a long time ago. It means I don't want you to leave. It means I want you to come back. I want you to stay, for good." 

Kurt felt his breath catch in his throat. He looked at the label again, and then he saw it, near the base, in small gilded letters. 

He read it once, and again. Then he looked to Blaine, and took his hand.

_For K, my grace note._

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the final regular chapter of Sotto Voce, but there is an epilogue that will post sometime in the next 48 hours. Thanks so much for reading, recommending and writing al of those notes. It's hard to imagine that it's nearly done!


	25. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> One last small chapter, a final "Year in the Valley" column. You can read it here or in its magazine format at http://64.37.48.241/~sillygle/tastemag/uncorked/23-in-the-end.htm

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author’s Note  
> It's hard to imagine that it's been nearly a year since the idea of Sotto Voce first crossed my mind, seeing fan art by minj500 of Klaine at a grape stomp. I bookmarked it, and didn't think much more about it until a business trip to Sonoma got me thinking about the rhythm of the area, and again while working in my own little vineyard, listening to the blues while pruning back Syrah and Zinfandel vines.
> 
> But it wasn't until a Klaine AU Friday during the first Season Four hiatus that I finally decided I needed to turn Blaine into a winemaker. The theme was Greek Gods, and I decided to write a ficlet about a Bacchanalia, a raucous post-harvest celebration with winemaker Blaine playing to role of Bacchus and Kurt, a wine writer trying to go unnoticed in the secretive party, being intrigued by Blaine's toga. Hardly Sotto Voce, but right then and there, I put it on my to-do list.
> 
> I started posting this story on Christmas Eve, 2012 and though I knew it would be roughly twenty chapters, it didn't sink in at the time that it would nearly be June before I was finished.
> 
> Sometimes it's hard to let go, to say goodbye, and this story has been near and dear to my heart. Between my mutual love of winemaking and of these two characters, it's going to be difficult to let go of this little world. But that's exactly what it's time to do. I'm not generally one for sequels or multiple stories in a 'verse. When it's done, it's done.
> 
> I've had questions and comments about my writing style, which is admittedly spare at times. One of the things that I have always enjoyed as a reader to when writers allow me a chance to use my imagination, to give me just enough information as a jumping off point. I don't like having every detail spelled-out for me so I can set my own imagination loose, and that's what I try to do when I write. I'm also a former newspaper reporter, and our mantra in the business is "Write tight." I guess it stuck.
> 
> I would never have finished this thing without the help of a handful of talented, dedicated people who have seen me through this with advise, support and the occasional necessary tough talk: 
> 
> Buckeyegrrl, who early on said, "I made this cover art, I hope you like it" and "What do you think about pdfs?" I think wow. The cover is just lovely, and will be the front-end of a pdf version of Sotto Voce she is currently working on that is just lovely and oh so cool, especially for a fic that has a glossary attached. I have absolutely zero skills at art, and I am overwhelmed by this.  
> Sillygleekt, who has a passion for copy editing that occasionally led us to bump heads over this story, but always resulted in improvements, and in additional thought going into the final draft.  
> Knittywriter, who made a tiny suggestion early on, a single word that became the logical conclusion for the story. Every word in the story ultimately led to it.  
> Iconicklaine, who underestimates her contribution to Sotto Voce. Annie read each chapter and gave what I think of as a 30,000-foot view to the story. She took great pains not to steer Sotto Voce in any direction than the one I wanted to take it in, yet shared an extraordinary eye for holes, characterization and areas where, as is often my habit, I may have set a pace that was not in keeping with the true pace of the area or the story. Much like Kurt learning to adapt to the slower pace of vineyard life, I needed to learn that this was not a race, and she taught me that with support and grace. 
> 
> Lastly, thanks for the kind words of support from so many readers. I did not go into this story expecting Sotto Voce to find an audience at all. It’s not based on a popular trope and while it is adult, it isn’t porn. It is simple storytelling, which is something that I really enjoy. That it connected with some of you, and that it has been warmly received, means more to me than I can express.
> 
> In Vino Veritas,
> 
> GirlieSportsJunkie

** UNCORKED **

Kurt Hummel, _Taste_ Wine Editor

**In The End, A Glass Full**

It's a funny thing, wine.

We break bread with it. We toast weddings and anniversaries with it. We honor global treaties with it.

Wine is so much more than a simple drink. It's a statement, an accent mark, a punctuation to a sentence.

It can complement a meal. It can serve as pretense. It melds science, culture, and even art.

For some, wine is a business, the thing that you make to make a living, and that's perfectly fine and good. For some, it's an art form, a statement piece that has meaning, a point of view. For others, it is a life's passion, the thing they pour their hearts and souls into.

I stumbled into this assignment a little over a year ago knowing how to identify a technically good wine, even a great wine, and how to pair it knowledgeably with food. What I came to understand as this assignment drew to a close was what wine really is.

More importantly, I came to understand how little I really knew about what makes wine truly special.

It's a reflection of the earth its grapes are rooted in: its chemicals, its history. It's the result of a creative mind and dedicated hands: of science, of imagination, of art.

Of love.

Over the course of this past year, I've done my thing, visiting vineyards and winemakers across California, and shared the trends of a wine region at the top of its game, but still evolving even as segments of it begin to hit middle age. Other areas are undergoing a renaissance of sorts, while still other California wine regions are only just beginning to mature.

In my down time, I learned a lesson in life as I was studying the craft of winemaking. Wine, you see, requires the art of patience and an acceptance of change, an understanding that sometimes you have to let nature take its course.

It has taught me about pace. You can't be rushed when you're making wine. You have to give it patience and care, and be willing to accept it for whatever its chemicals and nature deem it will become. You can make adjustments here and there, to be sure, but nature will ultimately dictate the outcome. There are some things you simply cannot force. A great wine, made with love and care, is one of them.

These are lessons I learned about the art of winemaking, but only recently did I realize that they were actually lessons in living, and that I almost failed them.

Almost.

If wine is made with love, it can define a life and with time and care and patience, you can make something truly special, even life-altering. I leave this series with a changed life, a new course charted by nature itself.

The schedule said that it was time for me to sign off, to go back to the way things were, to New York and its fast pace and fashionable boutiques; back to a life globetrotting in search of the world's great wines. And that's not a bad life, not at all.

But as I said, wine teaches lessons about time, and patience, priorities, and accepting change. And that, combined with the knowledge that a helluva lot of cities can be accessed from San Francisco International Airport, sets me in a new direction.

In a matter of a few short words, I will no longer be Kurt Hummel, _Taste_ Wine Editor. That title changes to wine editor emeritus, occasional columnist, budding viticulturist and winemaker — not necessarily in that order.

I'll still be working with _Taste_ , helping it find new flavors, voices and trends in the world of wine. I may even write from time to time. But I'll be doing it from the West Coast, from a verandah overlooking a swath of Syrah vines, a dog at my feet, a glass on the table, and a love by my side.

Kurt Hummel-Anderson  
Wine Editor Emeritus  
 _Taste_ Magazine


	26. The Sotto Voce Glossary

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Early on, I had several requests for a glossary of wine terms to go along with Sotto Voce, my Klaine fanfic set in California's viticulture industry. This glossary has been up on S&C for awhile, and I'm migrating it to A03. I'll also be updating from time to time (I think there are a few terms I already need to add), and I welcome any suggestions for additions to this list.
> 
> I have also included explanations of the musical terms used as the names of Rhapsody's wines, which not only provides the definition, but also the context with the appropriate wine.
> 
> At some point, I hope to go back and create links within the texts from the first reference of technical terms to the Glossary, but that's for another day...
> 
> Thanks again for reading and for all the kind notes — I'm glad people are enjoying it!

 

**Sotto Voce Terminology**

**_Music Terms_ **

The wines of Rhapsody are all named musical terms. Each of these names not only describes an aspect of music, but also highlights characteristics of the wine. The terms and the wine they represent include:

 **Allegrezza** : In music, Allegrezza means to be performed brightly. It is cheerful, joyful. The Allegrezza wine is a Roussanne, a Rhona white similar in character to Viognier. It is typically a wine with pronounced florals, grass or citrus tones, and is lighter in both color and flavor than a Chardonnay, but softer or rounder in flavor than most Sauvignon Blancs. It is also sometimes used as a blending wine to soften deep reds.

 **Appoggiatura** : In Italian, appoggiatura means roughly "to lean against." In music, it is a leaning note, a type of grace note that supports and is held for half the length of the note that follows it. For an interesting take on the apppoggiatura, listen to this story from NPR

http://www.npr.org/2012/02/13/146818461/the-ballad-of-the-tearful-why-some-songs-make-you-cry

 **Appassionato** : Impassioned, played with strong emotion. At Rhapsody, the Appassionato is a Syrah, a rich red wine also known in some regions as "Shiraz". Syrah is a big red, but can taste lush and velvety.

 **Fortissimo** : In music, fortissimo means to be played loudly. Wine which has been fortified means that it has had another alcohol, often brandy, added during or after fermentation. Fortissimo is Rhapsody's Port, a sweet, strong dark red dessert wine.

 **Mezzo** : Moderately, in the middle. A voice between soprano and contralto is a Mezzo. The Mezzo wine at Rhapsody in a Zinfandel, which is a moderate red wine often characterized by pronounced fruit, often the essence of berries, on both the nose and the palate.

 **Sotto Voce** : In a quiet, soft voice. Sotto Voce is Rhapsody's premier and very limited reserve blend. It is based on Syrah, which can be complex, both rich and delicate, with other Rhapsody grapes (most likely Roussanne). Blaine describes Sotto Voce as particularly subtle, a wine that evolves on the tongue and through its exposure to oxygen.

  
**_Wine Terms_ **

I have already posted a link to a Wine Enthusiast wine glossary that should be useful if you are unfamiliar with any wine terms, but I will also be adding to my own list as jargon or winemaking terms are used in Sotto Voce.

 **Brix** : The Brix scale is a system used to measure the sugar content of grapes and wine, which ultimately determines its alcohol content. Each degree Brix is equivalent to 1 gram of sugar per 100 grams of grape juice. The grapes for most table wines have a Brix reading between 20 and 25 at harvest. About 55 to 60 percent of the sugar is converted into alcohol, so multiplying the Brix by .55 will provide and estimate of the alcohol content of the wine. Grapes with 20 Brix will make a wine with about 11 percent alcohol.

 **Cap** : After grapes are initially crushed, the juice and skins are stored in containers for the early stages of fermentation, where they form a solid top, or "cap", which is "punched", or pushed and stirred, each day to break the material up and help the3 fermentation process.

 **Crush** : Both a verb and a noun in winemaking, crush is both the period of time right after harvest when grapes are crushed and the act of crushing the grapes, typically with a machine called a crusher-destemmer. This starts the fermentation process.

 **Free Run** : The free run is juice obtained from grapes that have been crushed and perhaps fermented, but not pressed. This is the purest and generally considered the highest quality juice.

 **Glassy-winged Sharpshooter** : The Glassy-winged Sharpshooter is a leafhopper insect that damages a variety of plants. They are a significant threat to grape crops both as a host for lethal Pierce's Disease and by feeding on plants. GWS lay a mass of eggs on the underside of leaves, and cover them with powdery white protective secretions. After the nymphs hatch, they feed within the vascular system of the small stems on the plant where the eggs were deposited.

 **Malolactic Fermentation** : Also known as malo or MLF (not that MLF...), a secondary fermentation in wines by lactic acid bacteria during which tart tasting malic acid is converted to softer tasting lactic acid.

 **Must** : The combination of crushed grapes and skins that ferment together before the skins are pressed and separated from the juice.

 **Oenology/Enology** : The chemistry/science of winemaking. It can be spelled either way, and represents the "E" in college "EVO" (enology & viticulture) programs.

 **Pierce's Disease** : Pierce's disease is caused by a strain of the bacterium that kills grapevines by clogging their water-conducting vessels (xylem). According to the University of California, the disease destroyed more than 1,000 acres of grapevines in Northern California between 1994 and 2000, causing $30 million in damages. There is currently no known cure for Pierce’s disease. Researchers have developed hybrid grape stock that has shown promise resisting Pierce's disease.

 **Powdery Mildew** : Powdery mildew is a fungal disease that can significantly reduce crop production. It is controlled through chemical methods, genetic resistance and careful farming methods.

 **Viticulture** : The agricultural science of grape-growing and vineyard management.

 **Worm** : The 'screw' in a corkscrew.


	27. Sotto Voce Playlist

While  _Sotto Voce_  wasn’t a music fic, music played a role in the story — in the names of the wines of Rhapsody Vineyards and as the background and scene setter at various points.

The  _Sotto Voce Playlist_  is a combination of songs in the story, music I listened to while writing it and songs that a character or a theme in the story, from Kurt’s electronica to the soulful classics that are very much a part of this characterization of Blaine.

The songs of Rhapsody vineyards are particularly tinged with the modern blues of Michael Kiwanuka and the rustic-folk sounds of Goat Rodeo and Andrew Bird.

The song that really stuck in my head as the music of  _Sotto Voce_ , however, is Pearl Jam’s  _Just Breathe._ It’s a beautiful, deceptively simple song that to me just felt like the pace and sound of Rhapsody.

These are files from my Spotify playlist, so my apologies if you’re in a country that can’t access them directly.

[Moby – In My Heart](http://open.spotify.com/track/0mDyxxsVAlm6uzrfGLfdMV)

[Alison Moyet – Love Resurrection](http://open.spotify.com/track/3puGZOgQ9QQ2ZF4pp9MBRn) 

[Andrew Bird – Orpheo Looks Back](http://open.spotify.com/track/4A57ghEIeXLkdkCog9GeOB)

[Stuart Duncan – Attaboy](http://open.spotify.com/track/6ghXD44kT8wqM1hty9NGgO)

[Michael Kiwanuka – I’m Getting Ready](http://open.spotify.com/track/54QckpslekyZCIEanFk787)

[Stuart Duncan – No One But You](http://open.spotify.com/track/2Ay9FNFYXSUTCMl7MHJY3u)

[Jorge Luis Cabrera – Musica Romantica](http://open.spotify.com/track/3cMU9Ga9pc3EED0HMbEiPM)

 [Marvin Gaye – I Heard It Through The Grapevine](http://open.spotify.com/track/0rRCh76SEXw88dLG2RsrjE) 

[P!nk – Sober](http://open.spotify.com/track/2JRgvTMX6fZI6g9p3cUWxR)

[Regina Spektor – Firewood](http://open.spotify.com/track/0WhfZdLd8dXoVXUTJaKR8a)

[Annie Lennox – Waiting In Vain](http://open.spotify.com/track/3SWpH05o2ow3GZkhd6EsMZ)

[Nina Simone – He Needs Me](http://open.spotify.com/track/1CGkOjgUmhovmLiKEYbcNB)

[Aretha Franklin – Good Times](http://open.spotify.com/track/7ugAWYnI4ZHXUfepTpOvLf)

[Otis Redding – I’ve Been Loving You Too Long](http://open.spotify.com/track/73qkrdCXAncDggNZqWKTo7)

[Pearl Jam – Just Breathe](http://open.spotify.com/track/3k9qjgu8zVKTEuJVJIYyc0)

[Aretha Franklin – Never Let Me Go](http://open.spotify.com/track/3jxojcnpbbbDcYCFJPzP1J)

[Amy Winehouse – Wake Up Alone](http://open.spotify.com/track/2G4rsUWjuBb6vPrUm01etb)  

[Billie Holiday – Come Rain or Come Shine](http://open.spotify.com/track/60DsQxba8tAjRJ6phJrUqy)

[Michael Kiwanuka – Home Again](http://open.spotify.com/track/46EuzanXhKwIc7755wLAvS)

[Andrew Bird – Belles](http://open.spotify.com/track/7cFsri1zWeVApN9TSTAr8e)

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks so much for reading Sotto Voce, and for the many kind words you've shared along the way. 
> 
> I have ore info about Sotto Voce on my website, erin-finnegan.com.
> 
> Thanks so much for reading, and cheers!


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